


Decade

by moonbobjohnson



Category: True Detective
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-11-05 09:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17916557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbobjohnson/pseuds/moonbobjohnson
Summary: “You ain’t the one that’s been married to the man for the past fucking decade,” Lucy snaps at him, glaring.The Purcell case closes, but Tom Purcell is still here, and Roland doesn't quite know what to do about the man.





	1. Eighty

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written fanfiction before, so, uh, here goes. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Roland wakes to the soft, even beeping of the hospital machines around him. He forces his eyes open, despite feeling like his body is being held down by some invisible weight intent on keeping him asleep. The first thing his eyes catch on is Wayne hunched over in a chair at his bedside. He’s fixing Roland with one of those uncomfortably intense looks of his, which softens the moment Roland manages to open his mouth and croak out, “Hey, partner.”

“Hey,” Wayne says, pulling his chair closer to the bed. “How’re you feeling?”

Roland blinks, thinking, trying to catalog the state of his body — everything is strange and numb, his leg feels like it’s not really a part of him at all. Just trying to think makes him feel like he’s swimming slow through murky water. “Like shit, but uh, I’m alright? Think I’m still kinda high.”

Wayne cracks a smile, reaches out to shake his shoulder. “They better be giving you the good stuff after the shit you’ve gone through.”

Roland chuckles, glancing Wayne over. He looks tired, but intact. “You got out alright?”

Wayne nods.

“You get him?”

The smile slips off Wayne’s face, but he nods again, slower.

“So, what’d I miss exactly?”

Wayne catches him up on the past day or so he’s been out — what happened between him getting shot and loaded into the ambulance, the search of Woodard’s property, the red backpack stuffed in the crawlspace beneath the worn floorboards. Roland grimaces as he listens, thinking back to their talk with Woodard at the station. He’d felt sorry for the poor bastard at the time. His stomach sours at the thought of having any sympathy for the child-murdering piece of shit now.

Mid-conversation, Wayne checks his watch and frowns, pushing out of his chair. “Hey, I gotta get back to the station. It’s a real madhouse over there. I said I wouldn’t be long.”

“Hold on,” Roland says. “Could you do me a quick favor? Could you call up my place?”

“What, you got some woman over there thinking you slipped out on her?” Wayne grins, shaking his head. “That’d figure.”

“Uh.” Roland blinks. “Not quite. Mr. Purcell spent the night before on my couch. I ain’t sure he’s still around, but.”

Wayne raises his eyebrows. “There a reason for that?”

Roland waves him off. “It’s long story, man. Look, could you just call and see if he’s still there? If he is, tell him—” Roland chews his lip, thinking. “—tell him he can stay put if he wants and the spare key’s in one of the kitchen drawers. I forget which. When am I supposed to get outta here?”

“Doctor said you gotta stay here the rest of the week, at the very least.”

Roland groans, “Well, see if he could come pick me up once I’m out? I don’t want you wasting your time coming down here — need someone at the station making sure they ain’t fucking this thing up.”

“Alright,” Wayne agrees, slapping his shoulder. “Feel better.”

Then he’s out the door and Roland’s sinking back down into the hospital bed, already sick of the white walls and the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol. His eyelids droop. It isn’t long before whatever they’ve got him on pulls him back under into sleep.

 

***

 

Days later, he’s being rolled out of his room in a wheelchair by a nurse — against the doctor’s suggestion that he stay longer. She takes him into the hallway and down the elevator to the waiting room. Tom’s leaning against the back wall, looking tired and uncomfortable, his face heavy with stubble. He catches sight of Roland and straightens up, looking him over.

“Detective,” he says as the nurse brings Roland to a stop.

“Here’s his care instructions, and these are his prescriptions. Make sure to get them filled today,” she explains, handing a sheaf of stapled papers to him. “All the directions are on there. And here.”

Tom nods, taking hold of the crutch she offers, and Roland twists in the wheelchair to thank her. Then she’s walking away and Tom’s handing the papers to him before tucking the crutch under one arm so he can roll the wheelchair along yet another white hallway. They exit the building and Roland takes what feels like the longest breath of air he’s ever breathed, letting it all out in one long, rolling exhale.

“How you feeling?” Tom mumbles. “Your partner told me you took one to the leg.”

“Not too bad, all things considered,” Roland says, rubbing his fingers over his leg. He can feel the lump of bandages lurking there underneath his sweatpants.

“It gonna heal up alright?”

“Don’t know. Guess I’m gonna have to wait and see.”

Tom rolls him to a stop in front of his car, stepping around to unlock it and prop open the passenger door. He pauses in front of Roland, glancing at him.

Roland smiles up at him. “Thanks for picking me up, bringing my stuff by.”

“Least I could do,” Tom mutters. “Well, let’s do this.”

He slides an arm around Roland’s back as he scoots to the edge of the wheelchair. Tom manhandles him up and out of the chair as Roland clutches at him, determined to stay upright and not end up face-down in the parking lot gravel. Tom mutters apologies under his breath as Roland tries to bite back any involuntary noises. Then he’s sinking into the passenger seat, panting with the effort of just taking two damn steps. Tom closes the door behind him. They don’t talk on the drive back.

 

***

 

Tom parks beside Roland’s car. They sit in silence for a moment, looking at the front of the apartment complex.

“If I’d known this was gonna happen, I’d have picked a place on the ground floor,” Roland jokes, eyeballing the stairs.

Tom grunts, turning to look him over in consideration.

“What?”

“Well, I was just thinking, maybe I should just,” Tom makes a gesture akin to cradling a baby.

“I don’t think so,” Roland scoffs. “I don’t want to have to turn around and head right back to the hospital when you drop me down the stairs. Last thing I need is to hear that doctor saying _I told you so_.”

Tom snorts, his lips barely quirking up at the edges. Roland blinks at him — it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s seen on Tom Purcell since meeting the man. Tom takes one last look at the stairs before stepping out of the car. He helps Roland up and out of the passenger seat. They hobble their way to the stairs without much trouble, but only manage a couple stairs before Roland stumbles. Tom grabs him tighter before he can slip from his grasp.

“Let’s just…hold on a moment,” Roland says as he heaves in a few noisy breaths.

Tom nods, one arm around his back and his other hand grasping his arm. Roland’s got an arm slung over his shoulders, so they’re standing there in a kind of awkward hug, Tom bracing himself against the wall. They stand like that for a long moment, until the cool autumn air blowing through his sweats and shirt starts to bother him more than the thought of rolling down the stairs does.

“Alright,” he says, tapping at Tom’s shoulder. “Alright, let’s go.”

They make it up the remaining stairs. Tom unlocks the front door with the spare key and practically drags him over to the couch. Roland groans as he sinks into the cushions, letting his head fall back. Tom disappears out the door again and returns with the crutch and the stack of papers in hand. He sets the crutch down next to Roland and pauses, standing there.

“You need anything?” Tom asks. “I should go pick these up.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

Tom stands there for a moment before he’s out the door again, keys jingling in his hand. The door clicks shut behind him.

Roland lets out a long, shuddering exhale, resting his hand over the lump of bandages on his leg. He sits there motionless, catching his breath, until he catches a faint whiff of a sharp, astringent scent. He cracks his eyes open and frowns at the coffee table, reaching out and swiping two fingers over the surface. They come away void of the dust he swears was there when he last left the apartment. He takes in the rest of the room with a slow glance. A glint of something on the floor next to the couch catches his eye and he slides himself over to the couch’s edge to fish for it. He comes up with a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, something he knows he didn’t bring into the apartment himself. He frowns, setting it back where he found it.

Drumming his fingers against one leg, he eyes the crutch where it leans against the couch. He grabs it and with some effort, hefts himself up from the couch and uses it to hobble his way into the kitchen. The kitchen counters look about as shiny as the coffee table. He flips open a cabinet to pull out the garbage can, shifting aside the trash on the top of the pile. Hiding underneath the rest of the usual trash are several empty beer cans. Roland chews his lip, then puts the garbage back and snaps the cabinet shut.

His leg already starting to shoot with warning pain, Roland shuffles himself back to the couch, not wanting Tom to return and find him collapsed on the floor.

 

***

 

He startles awake at the sound of the door opening. Tom shuffles inside with a paper bag in hand. Roland pushes himself up into a sitting position on the couch, yawning.

“Did you clean in here?”

Tom turns, his mouth twisting. “Uh, sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

“Hey,” Roland cuts him off, raising his hands, “I ain’t complaining.”

“I picked up some groceries yesterday, too,” Tom says as he sets the pharmacy bag on the coffee table.

“Thanks, man,” Roland says with a smile.

That night, they eat together on the couch, with the television turned on low, neither of them really paying it any attention. Roland swallows down his pills, as per the written directions, and an hour later, he starts to nod off sitting up. Tom helps him up off the couch and down the hallway into his bedroom. He keeps a careful hold on him until Roland’s planted firmly in bed. He’s already half-asleep, only faintly aware of Tom pulling up the covers around him and switching off the light.

 

***

 

He dreams of blood spilling over dead grass, tilting piles of refuse, children’s clothing smoldering and crumbling into ash. The warmth of blood gushing out over his fingers in rhythm with the beating of his own heart. Everything seems to be moving as if through honey, bodies blowing apart and wood splintering. The sound of screams filtering past the shrill ringing noise in his ears.

He jerks awake. There’s a shadow standing at the foot of his bed and his hand is halfway to the gun he keeps holstered behind the headboard before his mind catches up and he recognizes the shape of Tom’s curls. He lets his hand drop back down on top of the covers and pushes himself up to sit back against the headboard.

“Sorry,” Tom rasps, taking a step back. He’s standing in shadow, only back-lit by the hallway light. “I heard you shouting — must’ve been dreaming.”

“Yeah. Shit.” Roland scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. His leg is aching in a distant, detached way, muted by the pain killers.

“I heard it was real mess out there,” Tom says slowly, “at Woodard’s place.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

Tom looks at him for a long moment, then moves to leave.

“Hey,” Roland says, feeling something like panic beginning to rise in his throat.

Tom turns back toward him, his face cast in shadow.

“Look, uh,” Roland clears his throat and pats the empty side of the bed. “Why don’t you upgrade your accommodations?”

He’s glad the room is too dark to see the expression on the other man’s face as he says nothing. Then Tom nods, gestures behind himself. “Let me get the light.”

Roland watches as he steps into the hallway, the overhead light briefly illuminating his back before clicking off. There’s the slow shuffle of his feet on the carpet, then a brief wave of cool air as he pulls back the covers to slip in beside Roland, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. Roland glances at him out of the corner of his eye as his vision readjusts to the dark. There’s just enough moonlight filtering through the curtains to dimly reveal Tom’s face.

“I saw it,” Tom murmurs, his voice pitched low, “on the news. The explosion. They said there were causalities, I wasn’t sure if…you and your partner —”

“That why you went on a cleaning spree?”

“Didn’t know what else to do, sitting around here, not knowing what was going on.”

They both fall quiet. Roland can feel himself already starting to drift, the warmth of another body radiating from the other side of the bed.

“You been sleeping alright?” Roland mumbles, his eyes only half-open. “Here, I mean.”

Tom tips his head toward him, light reflecting off his eyes. “Better than before,” he murmurs, letting his head roll back onto the pillow to stare up at the dark ceiling. “Thank you. For letting me stay…I appreciate it.”

Roland hums in response. He says nothing else as he drifts back off to sleep.

 

***

 

He wakes early, just as the sky is beginning to lighten. He’s disorientated for a moment, still fuzzy from the medication — the past days hit him as he twists his head to the side and catches sight of Tom Purcell lying beside him, curls fanned out across the other pillow. He can barely recall the night before, had been out of it when he’d asked Tom to stay. He watches as the other man sleeps on. Tom looks more at peace than when awake, but his brow is still slightly furrowed, like even in sleep he still can’t quite escape his own worried thoughts. Roland thinks of the kids’ clothes burning to ash in that shithole junkyard. Tom hasn’t been told yet — something about finishing a more intensive search of Woodard’s property, checking for prints, Roland isn’t too sure — he’s only been able to talk with Wayne in short snippets of conversation. They still haven’t found the girl’s body. He should be out there too, searching, or at least back at the station with Wayne writing up reports.

Roland watches the rise and fall of Tom’s chest, his flannel shirt fanned open around him, exposing the thin curve of his stubbled neck. His mouth is hanging open, and there’s a little piece of lint, or dust, in his mustache, shaking with every exhale. Roland fights down the urge to brush it away, instead dragging his legs out of bed and taking hold of the crutch. He makes a slow journey to the kitchen and starts up the coffee maker. He stretches a hand up to open the cabinet and grab a mug, struggling to keep the crutch steady under his arm.

“Shit,” he mutters as the mug slips from his grasp. He makes to catch it, the crutch sliding free from under his arm. The mug just grazes his fingertips, falling to the floor and shattering. “Mother _fucker_.”

Tom’s in the kitchen within seconds, hair messy and eyes wide. He takes in the scene — Roland only upright by his grip on the counter, ceramic shards scattered across the linoleum. “The fuck?”

“Was trying to make coffee.”

“They told me you shouldn’t even be out of the hospital yet.” Tom frowns, carefully nudging the ceramic pieces aside with a socked foot. He slips an arm around Roland’s waist and guides him around the mess. “Careful.”

He sets Roland back down on the couch, then retrieves the crutch and hands it to him. “Why don’t you let me handle it?”

Tom sweeps up the broken mug before grabbing two new ones from the cabinet and setting them down. “Sugar? Cream?” he asks as he pours the coffee.

“Both.”

Tom pours the creamer and taps two conservative shakes of sugar into the mug and stirs it, glancing at Roland. At the look on his face, he brings the mug and spoon over to him instead, setting the container of sugar down next to it. He watches as Roland fixes his coffee properly and stirs it into a barely tan-tinted milky cloud. Roland looks up and chuckles at his expression. They sit together, not talking as they sip at their coffee. Roland’s actually just starting to find the whole thing sort of peaceful, when the phone starts ringing. Tom hands it off to him.

“Roland?” Wayne’s voice on the other end.

“Yeah.”

“They’re wanting Mr. Purcell to come down to the station.”


	2. Eighty-One

It’s just past dinnertime and Roland’s shaking out his wrists between paragraphs of the report he’s typing up when the man in charge of the front desk pokes his head around the corner and says, “Detective West? We just received a domestic disturbance call about the Purcell residence.”

Roland sighs, leans back in his chair. It isn’t the first call since the Purcell case closed and he doubts it’ll be the last. Responding to domestic disturbances isn’t really in his job description, but somehow he’s become the go-to for dealing with the Purcells. Probably because no one enjoys trying to get between Tom and Lucy when they start up fighting. Not that he does either, but they seem to at least listen to him more than any of the other guys they’ve sent. No one wants to be the one to finally have to pull one or both of the grieving parents into the station on minor charges.

The man raises his eyebrows. “If you don’t want to deal with it, I can get —”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Roland says, pushing himself up from the desk. He grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’ll handle it. Thanks.”

 

***

 

There’s lights on in the windows, but the curtains are shut when he pulls up to the curb. He steps out of the car and listens — dead silence. For a moment, he thinks the fight died down on its own, then there’s the sound of something shattering inside the house and voices start up shouting. He sighs, pushing himself to walk a little faster as he traverses the dying lawn to knock on the front door. The knock briefly silences the shouting, only for it to start back up a second later. He scowls and knocks again, louder.

“One goddamn minute!” The door is yanked open. Lucy squints at him, scowling. “You.”

“Mrs. Purcell.” Roland smiles, resting a hand on the door. “Mind if I come inside? Got a complaint ‘bout some noise.”

Lucy huffs, but stands aside as he steps in and closes the door.

The house seems to go a little more to hell with each time he returns — every surface littered haphazard with garbage, empty beer cans, and plates choked with cigarette butts. A mound of twisted blankets hanging off the couch. A new stain crusted into the living room carpet. Air stale with cigarette smoke and booze. Tonight all the kitchen cabinets are hanging open and there’s shards of dishes scattered across the floor. Tom’s standing in the dining room, cigarette in hand, looking out the door into the darkened backyard. Lucy flops down onto a chair in the living room and lights up, staring off at nothing in particular.

“Look,” Roland starts. Both of them glance toward him, but don’t quite meet his eyes. “Now, I understand you both been through a lot, but we can’t keep getting these calls. This keeps happening, I’m gonna have to make this into something and nobody wants that. So, why don’t…we, uh…”

Tom and Lucy both stare at him in confusion.

“Uh, you got —” Roland gestures at his own forehead.

Tom sets his cigarette down on a dirty dish and swipes at his forehead, frowning at the blood on his fingertips.

“You alright there, Mr. Purcell?” Roland asks, stepping closer. “You guys got a first aid kit or something?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tom says, raising his hands like he’s trying to ward him off.

“Under the bathroom sink,” Lucy mumbles around the cigarette hanging from her lips.

Roland grabs Tom by the arm and pulls him down the dark hallway as he protests. He flicks on the bathroom light and presses him down to sit on the closed toilet lid. Roland lowers himself to kneel in front of the sink to rummage through the dusty toiletries stored in the cabinet.

“It’s nothing,” Tom insists, hunched over and scowling. He wipes at his forehead again, smearing blood across his hand and sleeve. “Why’re you even here? Ain’t this kind of shit below your pay grade?”

“I don’t usually respond to these calls, no,” Roland says as he excavates the ancient, rusting first aid kit from the back of the cabinet, sending yellowing plastic bottles rolling, “but after what happened last time we sent somebody else out here, figured it was best if I handle the two of you from now on.”

He grabs hold of the counter to leverage himself up from the floor, grunting as he stands. He sets the kit down on the edge of the sink and pops it open, starts digging through the jumble of band-aids and expired packs of pain killers.

“Your leg alright?”

“Acts up sometimes,” Roland says, locating an antiseptic wipe and tearing the package open. “It’s getting better, mostly.”

Tom nods, watching him. “It’s really nothing,” he repeats at the first touch of the wipe on his skin.

“Look, why don’t you just let me do this, alright?”

Tom falls silent. Roland sighs and starts to wipe the blood from his forehead. He pauses to tip Tom’s chin up with his free hand, his stubble scratching against the pads of his fingers as he angles Tom’s forehead toward the dim bathroom light. Tom’s eyes briefly catch on his before sliding away. Roland finishes with his forehead and pushes his fingers into Tom’s hair, feeling around gently with his fingertips. Tom’s jaw tightens as his fingers find the cut on his head, the area around it starting to swell into a lump. Roland holds his hair back as he works the wipe along his scalp. Tom stares over his shoulder, his mouth a flat line.

Roland keeps his voice soft, “She do this?”

Tom’s hand snaps up to grab his wrist, shoving his hand away. He stands, pushing into his space, forcing Roland to stumble back against the doorjamb. He glowers at Roland, his mouth twisting in anger.

“That what you think?” Tom asks, pressing close, his voice low, the smell of beer heavy on his breath. “You think I’m that fucking pathetic, huh?”

“Look, I ain’t saying—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tom snaps. “I can take care of myself, alright? I don’t need you coming around, treating me like some kinda goddamn charity case.”

Roland sighs and leans against the doorjamb, looking him over as Tom turns away and flips on the sink. He starts scrubbing the blood from his hands. “Then don’t give me any reason to come back out here again.”

“You got it, Detective,” Tom says, staring down into the swirling water.

Roland walks back into the living room where Lucy is tapping ashes onto an already overflowing dish on the coffee table. He pauses at the door, looks back at her. “Keep things quiet around here, alright, Mrs. Purcell?”

Lucy doesn’t look up, just salutes him with her cigarette as he walks out the door. He gets into his car and lights up a cigarette of his own. He sits there in the dark, half-expecting for the shouting to re-erupt at any moment. When it doesn’t, he tosses his butt out the window and starts up the car.

Back at home, he washes Tom’s blood from his wrist.

 

***

 

A month or two goes by without contact with either of the Purcells. Not a single call about domestic disturbances, or either of them being drunk and disorderly. Roland is almost ready to think they might finally be calming down, when one night the police radio in his car crackles to life.

“Detective West, we just received another call about the Purcell residence.”

“Copy,” he responds, sighing, already making a U-turn, “I’m in the area. Be there in five.”

 

***

 

He pulls up to the curb of Shoepick Lane, catching sight of a neighbor peering from the window of the house across the street. The curtain falls back in place as he gets out of the car. He’s halfway to the front door when it slams open, hitting the wall with a bang. Tom steps backwards out the door, in the middle of pulling on his jacket.

“Go ahead! Run away!” Lucy shouts from inside the house. Tom lets the door slip from his fingers just as she emerges, slamming it open right back into the wall. “You fucking coward!”

“The only thing I’m running away from is another fucking argument with your goddamn crazy ass!” Tom shouts back at her, spreading his arms wide, car keys jingling in one hand. He flips around and nearly slams into Roland, reeling back in surprise.

“Mr. Purcell —”

“Not tonight,” Tom snaps, holding his hands up and shoving his way past him.

Tom’s in the car and backing out of the driveway before he can stop him, Lucy still shouting obscenities from the doorway.

“And you! You nosy fucking cunt!” Lucy screams, looking past Roland. He ducks as she sends a beer can flying over his head. “Don’t think I don’t know who keeps calling the fucking cops!”

He looks over his shoulder just in time to see the neighbors’ curtain flick shut again. Lucy takes a step off the porch.

“Mrs. Purcell,” Roland says, grabbing her by the arms and pushing her back inside before she can take another step toward the neighbors’ house, “let’s take a breath.”

“Fuck off,” Lucy snaps, flinging herself onto the couch and lighting up as he shuts the door.

Roland grits his teeth, tries to keep his voice even, “Look, Mrs. Purcell. It’s been a hard year for you, I know, but you two keep this up and you aren’t gonna leave me much of a choice. I’m gonna have to charge you with a fine or drag one or both of you down to the station, and you know I don’t want things to come to that.”

“ _Look_ , Detective West,” Lucy mimics him, snorting, “I don’t see how what goes on in my own goddamn house should be anybody else’s business.”

“Well, for one, there’s the city noise ordinance that takes effect after seven o’clock,” Roland says, “and then there’s the fact that tonight’s disturbance took place on your front lawn and probably would’ve moved over to the neighbor’s front lawn had I not come by when I did. And anyway, maybe I just think, with what the two of you’ve gone through, your time would be better spent helping each other instead of tearing each other down.”

“Don’t act like you know the first thing about me and Tom. You ain’t the one that’s been married to the man for the past fucking decade.” Lucy snaps, glaring up at him.

“Maybe not,” Roland says flatly, “but maybe I’m just of the general belief that married folks shouldn’t go throwing plates at their spouses’ heads.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Lucy mutters, looking away, her mouth twisting into a frown, “I wasn’t aiming to hit him — he just got in the way. He’s always getting in the way.”

Roland looks down at her, her pale fingers trembling as she taps the ash from her cigarette. He tries to imagine Tom and her in happier times, but finds the image just won’t come. He’s never seen either of them so much as put an arm around the other. The closest he’s seen them is when they’re in the same room ignoring each other, instead of shouting.

“Anyway,” Lucy says, taking a long drag and blowing out smoke, “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough, Detective.”

His attention snaps back to her. “Look, Mrs. Purcell, if you’re thinking about hurting yourself —”

She cuts him off with a bark of laughter and looks up at him with a thin smile, “That isn’t what I meant. I meant I’m getting the hell out of this piece of shit town.”

“Tom coming with you?”

“No, he’s all yours,” she says dryly.

“He know you’re planning to leave?”

“Don’t suppose it’ll come as much of a surprise to him. I been threatening it long enough,” Lucy crushes her cigarette butt out and stands, crossing her arms. “Either way, you won’t have to worry about driving down here again.”

“Well, take care of yourself, then,” Roland says, finding himself meaning it, even as Lucy scoffs in disbelief at him. “Try to keep things quiet until then, alright?”

“Sure,” she says as he turns back toward the door. “Detective?”

He glances back at her. She unfolds her arms, her expression distant.

“Keep an eye on my husband, will you? After I leave.”

“Will do, Mrs. Purcell,” he tells her. “Goodnight.”

He steps into the night air and walks down the empty driveway back to his car.


	3. Eighty-Two

Another night, another shitty bar with Tom Purcell sprawled on the curb outside. Another surly-looking bouncer with crossed arms looming over him. Roland heaves a sigh, staring out the window at the sorry sight Tom makes. At least he isn’t bleeding this time. He had hoped Lucy leaving town would give him less reason to go starting shit in bars, but no such luck. He rolls his shoulders and steps out of the car, turning his collar up against the chill in the night air. Tom and the bouncer both glance over at the click of his boots on the asphalt.

“God fucking dammit,” Tom slurs at the sight of him, scowling.

“Yeah, hello to you, too,” Roland says. “I got him.”

“Don’t come by here again,” the bouncer warns Tom, tossing a jangling keyring to Roland before heading back inside. There’s the brief clatter of people drinking and laughing inside as the side door swings open — a flood of warm light — before the door slams shuts and it’s just him and Tom alone together in another cold, dark parking lot.

“This place ain’t even in the county,” Tom grumbles, making no attempt to move. “How’d they even know to call you.”

“Actually, it’s just barely on our side of the county line,” Roland tells him, holding out his hand. “C’mon, I wanna get home. It’d been a long-ass day even before I had to drive out here.”

Tom glowers, but grabs his hand and lets himself be pulled upright. His weight nearly knocks Roland off balance himself. He has to grab Tom’s shoulder to keep his bad leg from sweeping out from under himself. They hold onto each other for a moment, swaying together like a couple of drunks.

“I’m gonna start billing you for my pain killers,” Roland grunts, trying to keep Tom standing without tipping them both over. He regains his balance and gets a better grip on Tom, who does his part to help by breathing in his face as he grumbles under his breath. Roland sighs and pulls him toward the car. Inside, he puts the car heater on blast and warms his hands in front of the vent. Tom mumbles something too slurred for Roland to catch before slumping sideways against the window with a long, tired sigh.

 

***

 

Tom is sleeping fitfully in the passenger seat when Roland parks, pale except for the flush high in his cheeks and around his nose. It’s been nearly two years since the case closed and the circles under his eyes only seem to have darkened. Roland sighs and reaches out to shake his shoulder gently. “C’mon, I ain’t gonna carry you.”

Tom blinks blearily at him, sitting up to squint out the condensation-coated windshield. “You could’ve just dropped me at home.”

“Well, I’m not your personal taxi service,” Roland scoffs, reaching past Tom to pop open the lock. “Like I’m gonna leave you to choke on your own vomit. Let’s go.”

They manage the stairs without much trouble. Tom leans against his shoulder as Roland unlocks the door and ushers him inside. He goes through the usual routine — set Tom on the couch after subtly checking him for any vomit, drag out the extra blankets and pillow, and set a glass of water with a bottle of aspirin on the coffee table. Tom fumbles off his work boots as Roland sits down in the armchair and lights up. He figures he’s owed at least one cigarette after having to drive out to the county line after sundown.

Tom slouches on the couch in silence, staring down at the coffee table. He looks up at Roland once, opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head and lays down instead. By the time Roland grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray, Tom is asleep. Roland leans over and drags the spare blankets over him. He’s watching the slow rise and fall of Tom’s chest, fingers itching for another cigarette and considering grabbing some case files to look over, when there’s a knock at the door. He frowns, checking the clock above the television. There’s a second knock and he scrambles for the door. He yanks the door open without bothering to check the peephole.

“Roland!” Lori says, smiling — her nervous smile, the one that’s just a little too wide. Her hands twist together on the strap of her purse.

“Lori,” Roland says, standing up a little taller. “Hey. Uh, what—”

“I am so sorry to bother you, especially so late. Just, uh, I think I left some of my things and, oh.” She frowns, peering past him into the dim apartment. She lowers her voice to a whisper, “Is he alright?”

“Yeah, here, come on.” He steps aside to let her in, glancing back at Tom before guiding her down the hallway into the bedroom. He switches on the lamp in the corner. “He’ll be fine, he just isn’t feeling too well.”

“Oh,” Lori says, looking concerned, “I hadn’t seen him around lately. At church, you know?”

“Yeah, uh,” Roland says, shoving his hands into his jean pockets, “he’s just sleeping it off. I’m keeping an eye on him, don’t you worry. Anyhow, you left some things?”

“Right, you mind if I…?” She smiles and releases her purse to motion toward the dresser.

He nods his assent. She makes quick work of flipping through the drawers and pulling out clothing. She thumbs through the thin stack in her arms, as if mentally cataloging the items before nodding to herself.

“Shit, I didn’t even realize you’d left stuff in there. I’d have brought ‘em over for you if I had.”

“It’s alright. It was just a few things.” Lori smiles at him, softer this time. She places her hand on his shoulder and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s good of you to look out for him, you know. You take care of yourself, Roland.”

“You too, Lori.” He smiles back at her. He walks her out of the apartment, giving her a brief hug at the door. The split had been amicable, but the familiar smell of her perfume and shape of her in his arms hits him with a pang of regret. He slides the door shut with a quiet click, muffling the sound of heels clicking down the stairs.

“I think I know her from church,” Tom’s voice rasps from behind him.

Roland startles, turning around to find him sitting up on the couch, looking haggard. “Thought you were asleep, man.”

“I didn’t wanna interrupt,” Tom says, his forehead creasing. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m in your way.”

“Huh? You’re not — oh. It ain’t like that,” Roland laughs, rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He leans on the edge of the armchair. “We split last week. She just stopped by to grab some stuff she left. Don’t you worry about it.”

Tom frowns at him, but says nothing. He lowers his head and drags a hand across his mouth. Swallows loudly.

“Hey, you o—”

Tom pushes up from the couch, looking pale, before bolting to the bathroom. Roland sighs as he hears him retching. He pushes off the armchair and grabs a cup to fill at the kitchen sink. He flicks on the hallway light and takes a washcloth from the cabinet before stepping into the bathroom. Tom is sprawled on the floor in front of the toilet, head down, hands trembling in his lap. Roland edges around him to set the water and washcloth on the counter. He reaches out toward Tom before thinking better of it and letting his hand drop back down to his side.

“You alright?” He asks instead.

Tom nods, breathing hard, “You don’t gotta—” He hunches up his shoulders and makes a frantic waving motion toward the door as he starts to dry-heave again.

Roland switches on the light and the fan before stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. He crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall, listening. He waits until he hears the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink running, then pushes off the wall. He sits back down in his armchair and lights up another cigarette. Tom eventually emerges from the bathroom, looking exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he settles back onto the couch, head down.

“Hey, if a little vomit offended my delicate sensibilities, I wouldn’t be dragging you back here from bars in the first place.”

Tom drags a hand over his face, then lets his head drop to rest in his hands. He mumbles past his fingers, “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Roland looks at him. He’s still pale, his hands still trembling. There’s a large water stain down the front of his shirt like he tried to scrub it clean in the sink. “Hang on.”

He returns from his bedroom with a clean shirt and a couple more blankets in hand. “Here,” he says, tossing the shirt to Tom. He lays the extra blankets down on the couch next to him. “You’re shivering.”

Tom turns the shirt over in his hands. He looks up at Roland, his eyebrows knitted together. Then his face crumples as he abruptly breaks into loud sobs. Roland stares in surprise before getting up from the armchair.

“Hey,” Roland mutters as he settles down next to Tom on the couch, putting a cautious arm around his shoulders. When Tom doesn’t push him away, he squeezes him a little tighter. “Hey, you’re alright. It’s okay, man.”

Tom buries his face in his hands as he sobs, his shoulders trembling beneath Roland’s arm. Roland waits him out, keeps his arm in place as he murmurs nothing in particular to him. He isn’t sure how long they sit there together before Tom’s sobs began to quiet into low whimpers before stopping altogether. He sniffs, wiping at his blotchy face with one hand. Roland gives his shoulder one last squeeze before releasing him to snag the box of tissues off the end table. He sets it on the coffee table in front of Tom.

“Come on,” Roland mutters, “you should rest.”

He picks the shirt off the floor and shakes it out before handing it back to Tom. He helps Tom out of his flannel shirt, lets him handle his undershirt on his own. Roland’s eyes catch on a shiny patch of burn scar on his upper arm before Tom tugs the clean shirt over his head. Tom blinks at him, his eyes pink-rimmed and swollen, Roland’s shirt hanging a little loose on his thinner frame.

“Get some sleep,” Roland says, patting his shoulder before gathering up the shirts. “I’ll throw these in the wash.”

He carries the shirts to the cramped laundry area tucked next to the bathroom. He throws the undershirt into the machine, then holds up the flannel shirt in front of himself. The material is thick, but worn-out and fading, gone ragged around the collar. It reeks of booze, but he can’t think of a time he’s been around Tom when his clothes and breath haven’t smelled like beer. The pockets of the shirt are heavy, so he empties them, spreading out the items inside on top of the dryer: loose change, a crumpled receipt, a mostly empty pack of cigarettes. He tosses detergent in the machine and starts up the wash, then leans against the dryer and smooths the receipt out against his thigh. He squints at the faded print: milk, sleeping pills, a six-pack of cheap beer, condoms, lube. He crumples the receipt back up, tosses it in the bin with the dryer lint.

 

***

 

Tom’s still asleep on the couch under a pile of blankets when Roland enters the kitchen in the morning. He starts up the coffee maker, pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge. A few more noises have Tom awake and pushing himself upright with a groan. Roland peers across the counter at him, biting down a smile at the state of his hair.

“You up for eating?” He asks as he turns on the stove burner under the frying pan.

“Think so,” Tom mumbles, untangling his legs from the blankets and standing.

“I left an extra toothbrush in the bathroom,” Roland tells him. “And your clothes.”

Tom stares at him, chewing the inside of his lip and for a moment, Roland’s worried he’s about to cry over the toothbrush, too, but then he just shuffles down the hallway instead. He can hear the muffled sounds of him getting cleaned up as he continues to cook. Tom returns, still looking tired, but cleaner at least. He sits at the table and Roland slides him a plate of eggs and a cup of coffee before sitting across from him. Tom stares down at his plate, not moving.

“I’m sorry that—”

“You already apologized last night,” Roland interrupts, giving him a smile. “You don’t gotta apologize twice.”

Tom nods, his head still down. “Then thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome. Now, eat,” Roland says, gesturing with his fork. “I’ll drop you off at your car before I gotta head to work.”

 

***

 

They pull into the parking lot of the bar — it’s hard to say if the place looks more or less dismal in the daylight than the night before. Tom’s car sits alone in the corner of the lot, obscured by fog, the windows misted over.

“Hey,” Roland says as Tom grabs the door handle. Roland reaches out to touch his shoulder, feeling as Tom tenses beneath his hand. “I want you to take this. Plenty of guys on the force go to these meetings, Tom. There’s no shame in it. Consider it, at least.”

Tom takes the business card, tracing a thumb over the black lettering. He swallows, looking up at Roland as he tucks the card into his shirt pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Roland says, squeezing his shoulder before releasing him. “Get home safe.”

Tom hesitates a moment, sitting with his feet swung out onto the asphalt. He turns to offer Roland a brief, tired smile. “You got it, Detective.”


	4. Interlude: Eighty-Three

Things start to quiet down in eighty-three — with Lucy Purcell long gone from town, there are no more domestic disturbance calls, and after a few scattered incidents of having to pick Tom up from bars, the calls stop coming in altogether. Roland isn’t so naive as to think Tom’s stopped the drinking — either he’s just stopped making trouble while doing it, or he’s only drinking at home. He should be glad for the reprieve, but instead he worries more, knowing he has no excuse to go check up on the man, no way of knowing what he’s up to or how he’s doing.

Tom leaves town early in the year. Roland moves his own car and watches him as he drives away, raising his hand in a half-hearted wave that Tom doesn’t return. He tries to fight down the sinking feeling in stomach as the car turns the corner and disappears from his sight. He leans against his car and smokes two cigarettes, one after the other, half-hoping that Tom will come back for something he’s forgotten. He doesn’t.

Roland sighs, crushing the cigarette butt under his boot, and takes one last long look at the Purcell residence. He thinks back to the first night they met, how Tom had already been on the edge of panic. How Roland had thought it was probably nothing, that at worst, the kids had made some half-assed attempt at running away from home. How he’d thought the case would be solved by the morning. He gets back in his car and heads toward the station, drumming his fingers against the wheel the entire way.

With Tom’s departure, talk about the Purcell kids dies down altogether. The case had already been behind the town; the last real development had been that article in the paper by Wayne’s girlfriend that stirred up so much shit among the higher-ups. Life continues on and Roland throws himself into work, trying to pretend like he isn’t always waiting for the call from Tom to come. He goes out for drinks with co-workers after his shifts are over, then checks his answering machine first thing when he steps back into his apartment. He sits in his living room and smokes and tries not to spend too much time thinking about it.

 

***

 

The months drag on with no word from Tom.

Roland has one short-lived partner after the Purcell case, then gets another in eighty-three. This one sticks. He’s no Wayne Hayes, but he’s clever enough and Roland can appreciate his ability to leave the work at door when he clocks off. The man has a wife and a newborn baby girl at home, so he doesn’t work late or go out for drinks with the guys. They aren’t friends, but they get along well enough as partners.

Outside of work, Roland dates around casually. Sometimes, he finds himself missing Lori — they dated for almost two years and he hasn’t had a relationship last long since. He’s never been good at that kind of thing, at keeping a relationship going. He’s better at the beginning — the getting to know each other part — but there’s something to be said for the quiet comfort of familiarity, waking up to the same face morning after morning. Lori had been sweet, even if she had kept trying to drag him along to church with her, but she had wanted more than he was willing to give.

That spring, him and his partner investigate a robbery at a little bank branch downtown. They spend the afternoon going over surveillance tapes and interviewing employees. One of the more attractive tellers they question slips Roland her number. He turns around and raises his eyebrows with a smirk to his partner, who only shakes his head in exasperation.

Roland finds himself going out for drinks with her a week later. She’s sharp-eyed and a little mean, a little obnoxious, but he’s a few drinks in and she’s making him laugh with her casual cruelty toward her co-workers. The bar tonight is packed with people shouting at the game on television and they find themselves shoved together at a corner table. Roland can’t complain when she uses the opportunity to lean into his side. Her lips brush his ear a few times as she tries to talk loud enough to be heard over the noise.

One of her hands is already riding high on his leg and he’s finding himself fully present in having a good time, for once, when she asks, “Weren’t you the guy that investigated those missing kids a couple years ago? With that big shootout? I didn’t wanna seem nosy when you came by before.”

“One of the guys, anyway,” he agrees, taking a long swig of his beer.

“I thought so,” she says, bumping her shoulder into his. “I remember seeing you on the television. My ex worked with those kids’ daddy. He thought he must’ve done it — guess he was some kinda queer or something.”

Roland freezes. His date mistakes his silence for interest and laughs, “Yeah, they caught him coming out of some club — he said it wasn’t nothing, but it’s not like you can wander in that kind of place by mistake, right? Probably better those kids ain’t around him.”

“Think we’re done here,” Roland says, pulling away from her and standing. She stares at him, her mouth open in surprise.

“What?” She calls after him, her voice lost in the noise of the bar. “You some kind of fag or something?”

He pays his tab and heads back out to his car. The darkened parking lot, the muffled voices from the bar, the gravel crunching under his boots, all worm their way into his brain, dragging up every memory of Tom Purcell’s hand in his as he pulled him up from the ground, again and again. He slams his car door harder than he means to. Anger burns in his chest the whole drive home.

 

***

 

Summer comes and one weekend Roland uses up some of his vacation time to drive across the state line with an overnight bag packed. He checks into a little motel — it’s a cheap, no-frills kind of establishment, but it’s clean enough. He sets his bag down next to the bed and wanders over to the window, pulling back the discolored curtains to look out at the dreary view of the highway. He lets the curtain slip shut and lays down on the ugly bedspread to sleep.

He wakes just as the sun is starting to go down. He hauls himself off the bed and grabs mouthwash from his bag to freshen up in the bathroom. He frowns at his reflection, finger-combs his hair back into place, pops open another button on his shirt. He tucks the motel key into his wallet and heads out the door. The bar he’s looking for is just a block away from the motel. Its parking lot is busy enough, but he keeps his head down until he gets inside. It’s been a few years since he was last here, but it’s about the same as he remembers it — dimly lit and a little outdated. He slides onto a stool at the bar and orders a beer.

He catches some glances and there’s a man at the other end of the bar that keeps looking his way. Roland’s considering getting up and going over to him when he spots the guy in the corner. He’s tucked away alone in one of the back booths, picking at the label on his beer, eyes down. He has close-cropped hair and a leather jacket, but he’s thin-framed and nervous-looking — like he stumbled into the place by accident. Roland drains his beer, orders another, then wanders his way over to him.

“Evening,” Roland says, smiling. “You ain’t waiting for someone, are you? Mind if I sit?”

“Uh, no, that’s fine,” the guy says, looking up from his drink with his eyes wide. If the place wasn’t so dark, Roland’s sure he’d catch a blush blooming over his thin face.

They shoot the shit awhile — weather, sports, current events — nothing which seems to completely relax the guy. He’s still clearly nervous, fidgeting with his drink every two seconds, but his eyes keep coming back to Roland. Like he’s unused to looking at another man without having to worry about being caught in the act.

“Look,” Roland murmurs, leaning in, “I got a room at the place a block over. Wanna come on back with me?”

The guy swallows and nods.

“You finish your drink and come on by. Room 218.”

The night air is cold, but he feels flushed as he strolls back to the motel. He waits, not entirely sure the man will follow him until there’s a knock at the door. He smiles and lets the other man into the room, only lit by the single dying light-bulb over the sink. Roland shuts the door and turns to face him.

“You don’t do this kinda thing often, do you?” Roland asks, slipping off his blazer.

“No,” the guy admits, swallowing, watching him. His fingers rest on the edge of his jacket like he’s waiting to be told what to do.

“It’s alright,” Roland says, pressing close and cupping a hand along his stubbled cheek. He drags kisses across the other side of his jaw until he meets his mouth, the man swaying into him, his hands sliding onto Roland’s hips. “Lemme take care of you.”

He sits in bed smoking after the man leaves. He takes in the room — the water-stained ceiling, the bland paintings crooked on the walls, the scratched wooden chair in the corner. He thinks of Tom, somewhere else, in a motel room just like this one. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the remainders of his previous life packed away in just a few bags on the stained floor. After months of silence, he’s stopped waiting for Tom to call.

 

***

 

With the arrival of winter, a cold snap sets in across the county. Officers stamp the snow from their boots before stepping into the station. Roland bundles himself into his warmest coat every morning before heading out. He starts to fall back into a routine — work, then back to his apartment to cook dinner, drink, and watch television. Occasional dates on his off days, drinks with the guys after work once or twice a week. Rinse and repeat.

In December, he volunteers to come in on Christmas Day. His partner promises to leave his pager on, but Roland doesn’t intend to contact him even if something comes up. His partner is clean-shaven and buzzing with holiday cheer the day before, ready for the arrival of his parents and in-laws. Roland buys his kid an over-sized plush elephant at the local toy store and wraps a messy bow around it. His partner shakes his hand, thanks him, and wishes him a happy holiday before stepping out the door.

Roland calls his parents in the morning before he leaves for his shift, jamming the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulls on his boots.

“Yeah, I know, Ma,” he says, “I would’ve liked to, too, but I gotta work. What can I do? I’ll see you guys sometime soon, I promise. I gotta get going.”

He spends most of the day typing up reports and reviewing current case files. For lack of anything better to do, he starts to clean his desk, pulling out drawers and excavating the disorganized papers long since fallen to the bottom of the pile and forgotten. He fills the trash bin at the side of his desk with outdated information related to cases since solved. There’s a little scrap of paper tucked between two manila folders and he flips it over. There’s a few bullet points in Wayne’s handwriting: _peephole, Dan O’Brian — cousin_. He frowns, balling it up and tossing it in with the rest of garbage. He drops his head into his hands with a sigh, dragging his palms down over his eyes.

He doesn’t think of the Purcell case as much as he used to, but from time to time, the thought of Tom lying dead in some shitty motel, far from home, rises unbidden in his mind. He’s not sure how long the news would take to reach him — if at all — if Tom was found dead. Probably not until long after the fact.


	5. Eighty-Four

“You hear about Purcell?” his partner asks one morning in November as he hands Roland a styrofoam cup of coffee.

They’re about to head over to a crime scene at the edge of town — one dead. Roland’s already heard the basic details: middle-aged woman, recently divorced, ex-husband nowhere to be found. He doubts it’ll take much detective work to figure this one out. If they’re lucky, the husband will be stupid enough to get himself caught before he even crosses state lines.

“What?” Roland asks, his tone sharp enough that his partner startles.

“Purcell just got back into town,” his partner says as he shuts the car door behind him. “Dunno when — recently enough, I guess. I can’t see why he’d want to come back.”

Roland grunts in acknowledgment as he pulls out of the station, his jaw tense.

“If _that_ happened to me,” his partner mutters, frowning out the window, “I’d get the hell out of dodge and never look back.”

By the end of the week Roland’s heard plenty of talk around the station about Tom Purcell’s return to West Finger. He feigns disinterest, listening close all the while. One officer mentions running into him working at a garage across town. Roland jots down the name in his notebook and looks it up in the yellow pages when he gets home. He tears the page out and weighs it down with the ashtray on the coffee table. He taps out a cigarette and sinks into his armchair, staring down at the page as he smokes, watching the way the glass warps the lettering underneath.

Tom never once called the number he’d given him before his departure from town. He’d waited and waited for that call — fully expecting that one night he’d be woken by the phone ringing and have to drive out across state lines to god-knows-where to pull Tom Purcell up from another bar curbside, but the call had never come. Eventually, he had stopped waiting.

 

***

 

A week later, Roland pulls into the garage Tom’s working at. It’s a little family-run place, butted up against a concrete drainage channel with a dying patch of lawn masquerading as a park on the opposite side. He parks facing the building itself and peers out the windshield, spying Tom standing inside, wiping his hands off on a rag. Roland steps out of his car, watching as Tom finally looks up and catches sight of him. He half-expects Tom to turn back and pretend not to have seen him, but instead he turns to say something to his co-worker, then tosses the rag down and starts strolling over. His eyebrows are raised, but he looks more amused than annoyed, which Roland takes as a good sign.

“Detective,” Tom greets, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“I can’t seem to remember the last time I got my oil changed,” Roland says, casual like this is just a normal business transaction, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. He rests his hand on his car’s roof. “I figure that probably ain’t good.”

“Alright,” Tom says, his eyebrows climbing a little higher. “You usually come all the way across town for an oil change?”

“Sometimes.”

Tom snorts out a laugh. “Okay, well, it won’t take too long.”

“Great,” Roland says, tapping his fingers in rhythm against the roof. “You get a lunch break? Maybe I could go grab us something to eat from the place across the street while you handle the oil.”

“Yeah, I think that could work out,” Tom says after a pause spent staring at him with his brow furrowed.

Roland watches as Tom walks away, calling out instructions to a co-worker, then shakes himself back into the present and starts to head back around to the little place he saw across the street.

An hour later, they’re sitting together eating sandwiches on a bench in the little unkempt park on the other side of the channel. The air is cold, but not enough to stop them from sitting outside. Tom’s thrown a flannel shirt on over his jumpsuit. Roland tries to look him over without outright staring at the man — he looks younger without the mustache, with his hair grown long enough to curl behind his ears, but he still has the same tired, dark circles under his eyes. There’s an oil stain on his collar that’s migrated onto his neck and Roland pushes down the urge to wipe at it with his napkin.

“Almost didn’t recognize you,” Roland says, gesturing toward his own face, “without the mustache.”

“Got sick of it, I guess,” Tom says, actually manging something half-resembling a smile.

“So,” Roland says, keeping his voice tone mild, “where’d you go when you left?”

“Here and there,” Tom says, shrugging. “Went to Louisiana for a bit, stayed with my folks.”

“Didn’t want to stay down there?”

“Nah.”

Tom doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate and Roland doesn’t inquire further. It’s the first time they’ve been around each other without Tom being in some sort of trouble and he doesn’t want to ruin it by pushing too far. He leans back on the bench with a sigh, letting their shoulders brush. Tom shoots a quick glance at him.

“How about you?” he asks. “How you been doing?”

“Me?” Roland shrugs. “About the same. Still a detective, still in the same place. Not much going on with me.”

Tom nods and looks back out at the park, as if there’s anything out there worth looking at. “You seeing anyone?”

“Not really,” Roland says, biting down a smile. “Nothing serious, anyway.”

They exchange small talk — what places have gone out of business, the construction going on downtown, the weather. They finish eating and toss the paper from their sandwiches into the dented bin next to them. Tom rolls his shoulders, yawning wide, his jaw clicking with the force of it.

“I better get back to it,” he says, resting his hands on his thighs, about to push off from the bench.

“Hang on,” Roland says, reaching out and swiping his thumb over the black spot on his neck. Stubble scratches against the pad of his thumb, Tom’s pulse jumping beneath his touch. He wipes his hand off on his jeans as Tom stares blankly at him. “You had some oil or something on you.”

“Oh,” Tom says, blinking, “Thanks. I better, uh—”

He stands and dusts his hands off, starts walking off at a rapid pace that Roland isn’t about to try to match.

“Thanks for the oil change!” he calls after him.

Tom raises his hand in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look back.

 

***

 

Roland stops by the garage again the next week, this time without a sorry attempt at an excuse in hand. He pulls into a spot on the edge of the lot, spies Tom leaning over a car with its hood lifted, already looking up at him. Tom glances behind himself at the garage before jogging over just as Roland’s getting out of his car.

“Hey—”

“You need something or—”

“I was just gonna see if you wanted to grab lunch together,” Roland says.

“Uh, now ain’t a great time,” Tom mutters, glancing backwards again. “Boss is on the warpath. Had a big break-in a couple nights back and he’s pissed.”

“That so?” Roland straightens, pushing his hands into his pockets. “He file a report already?”

“Yep, not that he expects anything to come of it,” Tom mumbles as he taps one foot, his whole leg bouncing with the motion.

“He around? Why don’t I talk to him? See if I can’t get something done about it.”

“He doesn’t like cops much,” Tom warns.

“Neither did you,” Roland says with a smile.

 

***

 

Roland’s partner finds him the next morning already at his desk, chin in hand as he reads over the robbery report for the fifth time. He got it from the responding officer without so much as a shrug.

“What case is this?” his partner asks, squinting at the unfamiliar handwriting. “When’d we get this?”

“It ain’t one of ours. Just looking over it for somebody,” Roland mumbles, sliding it across the desk to him.

His partner skims over the file as he sips from his first cup of coffee, then pushes it back across to Roland. “Not much there. No camera.”

“Hm, got prints off the door, though.”

“Prints that don’t match up to anything we got,” his partner peers at him over his cup. “Probably just got to wait and hope the stolen items turn up for sale later.”

“Probably right,” Roland sighs, setting the file aside.

 

***

 

Another week passes, when one afternoon he returns to the station with lunch in hand and his partner waves him down as he steps into the room. “Roland, we just got a call about a robbery at some pharmacy. Pretty close to that auto shop of yours. Said we’d handle it.”

“Yeah?” Roland says. “Well, let’s go. Can eat on the way.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon talking to employees and reviewing their security camera footage with the manager hovering over their shoulders. It doesn’t do them much good — their suspect’s face is covered, gloves on the entire time, his winter coat too bulky to even determine so much as his body type. Roland chews his lip as his partner jots down notes.

“What about the front of the store?” he asks. “You got a camera facing the street?”

“Yeah, sure,” the manager says, “let me pull it up for you.”

“Well, shit,” Roland snorts as they watch the video, the grainy image showing their suspect’s car pulled in front of the store in a hurry, parked haphazardly, half on the curb, angled directly up at the camera.

His partner chuckles as he jots down the license plate number. “Poor dumb bastard.”

“Well,” Roland says, standing to shake the manager’s hand, “assuming those plates are real, and the car ain’t stolen, we should have something for you soon.”

 

***

 

“What’s the news?” Roland asks the following morning, spotting his partner already planted at his desk.

His partner grins at him and frisbees a stack of papers his way. “Prints came up. Guy’s been booked prior, did a little time for repeated petty theft. Guess he’s been moving onto bigger and better things ‘cause his prints match up with your auto shop. Then, I got to thinking about that bank that got hit up last spring. Dead match.”

“Well, fuck,” Roland says, slapping him on the shoulder. “How ‘bout that?”

“Right?” His partner grins up at him. “Three in one.”

“So, we got a current address on this guy?”

 

***

 

Roland returns to the garage after their suspect is arrested. The workers glance his way as he heads into the owner’s cramped office to deliver the news. One bruisingly enthusiastic handshake later, he’s out the door, Tom falling into step beside him as he walks back to his car.

“Nice work, Detective,” he says, nudging him with an elbow.

“Not hardly. Dumb shit pretty much got himself caught.” Roland grins over at him. “Hey, what do you say I pick you up after work? Go out and get something to eat other than sandwiches.”

“Yeah, alright,” Tom says. “Lemme give you my address. You got a pen?”

Roland slips his notebook from the inner pocket of his blazer and watches as Tom jots down his address in a messy scrawl, oil smeared dark into the lines of his knuckles.

“I should be good for six.”

“Well, alright,” Roland says, smiling. “I’ll see you at six.”

The block of apartments Roland pulls up to that night are ten minutes away from the garage, in the same older, worn-down section of town. They’re crammed together, the wrought-iron bars over their small windows making the place look more like a prison complex than an apartment complex. The faded red of their bricks is the only color in sight. Roland walks past a few scraggly trees to knock at the door and Tom steps out almost immediately, pulling the door shut behind him.

“What?” he asks, catching the way Roland is looking at him.

“Nothing,” Roland says, raising his eyebrows. “Just not used to seeing you in something other than flannel.”

“Funny,” Tom says, tugging on the hem of his sweater.

Roland clears his throat. “Didn’t say it looked bad on you.”

Tom frowns at him. They look at each other for one long moment, before Roland coughs again and gestures towards his car.

 

***

 

Tom actually laughs when he sees where Roland has brought them. The little railcar diner is decked out in its usual neon, its big sign lit up in red and blue. All the lights reflect off its metallic exterior, making the place a riot of color against the otherwise dreary winter landscape. There’s a handful of people milling around the entrance, shapeless in their winter coats. Roland and Tom walk up to join them as the hostess sticks her head out the door.

“John, party of four?” she asks. A group of senior citizens shuffle their way into the diner past her as she points to Tom and Roland. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Gonna be about a ten minute wait, alright?” the hostess asks.

“Sure.” Roland grins. “We ain’t got no place else to be.”

Tom pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pockets of his jeans and offers it to Roland, who shakes his head. He watches instead as Tom lights up one of his own, the lighter’s flame casting a warm glow over his face. He breaths out blue plumes of smoke, his head tipped back as he glances back at the front of the diner.

“I think I took the kids here, once or twice,” he says, taking another drag, “long time ago. When they were still little.”

Roland makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, watching as Tom seems to fade out, staring off at nothing, cigarette forgotten in his fingers. He coughs, then slides his hand down to take the cigarette from Tom’s hand. Tom blinks, startling back to attention as their cold fingers brush.

“I used to take my dates here, back in the day,” Roland says, tapping off the ash and taking a long drag, not looking away as Tom stares at him.

“Christ,” Tom mumbles, breaking the eye contact to stare at the ground instead, but he takes the cigarette back when Roland offers it.

They pass the cigarette back and forth in silence until it hits the filter, Roland crushing it out beneath his heel. They lean against the railing together, shoulder to shoulder, until the hostess calls them and they make their way into the diner’s warmth.

 

***

 

They spend more time together as December rolls around. They go out to eat, and Tom starts to come back to his place afterwards to sit around watching nothing in particular on the television. One night, Roland invites him over for an actual home-cooked dinner. At Tom’s insistence that he help out with the preparation, Roland lets him chop vegetables as Roland handles the actual cooking next to him. They work in tandem, Tom mumbling apologies every time his elbow grazes Roland’s. They eat together at the table, Roland thinking back to a morning two years earlier — the last time Tom occupied his apartment.

Tom is sober every time, so far as Roland can tell. He doesn’t question him about it, but he keeps his eyes peeled for cracks in Tom’s newfound stability — the always present dark circles beneath his eyes, the increasing number of cigarettes he smokes, the occasional tremor in his fingers. Sometimes Roland says something, only to find Tom staring off at nothing and it takes a few tries to bring him back to the present. Tom never invites Roland into his own apartment and if Roland picks him up, he slides out the door and shuts it quick before Roland can see inside. Roland pretends like he doesn’t notice.

He knows no man with the deaths of his children weighing on his mind could be at peace in so short a time, but he seems stable, functional. Better.

 

***

 

Roland avoids the topic of Tom’s life when they’re together. They talk about his work, his neighbors, the weather, any subject that doesn’t lead back to Tom’s life before his re-arrival in town. He doesn’t even bring up any of his cases that deal with death in any capacity. Roland doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t push, until one night he does.

Tom’s been avoiding him the past week, when he finally accepts one of Roland’s invitations to come over. He’s distracted and distant, clearly upset, but he shrugs off Roland’s carefully voiced concern. He can’t even recall what leads the conversation to that point, just that it ends up there and when Tom doesn’t answer, he pushes a little harder, his voice harsher than he means for it to be when he says, “What’d you come back here for then?”

Tom flinches, his mouth tightening. “You think I came back here just ‘cause of you?”

Roland frowns, wishing the words back into his mouth. “That wasn’t what I—”

“Maybe I realized being somewhere else didn’t change a thing. Maybe I realized if I all got left is memories of my kids, I’d rather be here, where I can remember.” Tom’s voice rises, shaking. “But you think—”

“Tom, I—”

“I don’t need whatever you’re offering,” Tom snaps, his voice cracking, pushing himself up from the couch. “Treating me like some kinda stray make you feel better about yourself, Detective? Well, I don’t need it, I don’t need your goddamn pity.”

“It isn’t pity, Tom,” Roland says, stumbling to his feet after Tom.

“Like hell it ain’t,” Tom mutters, turning around and grabbing his coat from the back of the armchair.

“Hey.” Roland grabs his arm to pull him back around.

“Don’t.” Tom yanks his arm away.

“Just listen to me, okay?” Roland says as he holds up his hands. “I don’t pity you. I like you, alright? And I don’t like seeing you hurting. You think everybody I meet who’s down on their luck, I offer them a place to stay? You know how much shit I’ve seen on the job? How many people with dead families? Dead kids? You think I treat them all this way?”

Tom looks at him with wide eyes, his mouth a tight, flat line, his knuckles gone white on his jacket.

“It’s just you,” Roland mutters, reaching out to grab Tom’s shoulders, gentle this time. “You’re the only one who—”

“Why?” Tom asks, his voice cracking. “Why me? I’m not a good person, I—”

“What? Of course you are,” Roland stares at him in confusion, moving his hands up to cup Tom’s face. “You’re a good man.”

“I’m not,” Tom shakes his head, swallowing hard. “I got my kids killed.”

“Jesus, Tom. No,” Roland says softly, tipping his face up. “It wasn’t your fault. They were just out playing like any other kids. You couldn’t have known.”

“You said they weren’t going to Ronnie’s like they were they said, that they were lying. If I had been around more, if I had been a better father, they wouldn’t have lied to me. They would’ve come to me and—”

“Hey. Hey,” Roland swipes his thumbs over his cheeks as tears start to track down his cheeks. “You don’t know that. Maybe they were lying about where they were going, but that don’t mean that has anything to do with what happened.”

“How can it not? If they were meeting Wo—that man out there and he’s the one who—then it’s my fault. Lucy was right, I’m no good. I fuck everything up. I fucked up my marriage and I thought I could be a good father, but now I—I don’t even know where my daughter’s body is,” Tom chokes out, sobbing. “I can’t even bury her with her brother.”

“Tom,” Roland mutters as Tom drops his jacket and twists his hands into Roland’s shirt. “Tom, hell.”

Tom starts to sob into the front of Roland’s shirt as Roland pulls him closer, winds an arm around him so he can rub slow circles over his back with one hand. Tom says something that Roland can’t make out past the crying, so he just shushes him and holds him a little tighter. When his leg starts to flare up with warning pains, he carefully pulls Tom down onto the couch with him as he continues to sob. He doesn’t know how long they sit there together with Tom’s head buried against his shoulder before his sobs finally begin to abate and he pulls away, his face gone red and blotchy. Roland lets an arm linger around his shoulder, not quite ready to release him.

“You should stay here tonight,” Roland says softly. “I don’t want you driving in the state you’re in.”

“The state I’m in?” Tom chokes out a watery laugh, dropping his hands from his face to his knees. “That I’m always in, you mean? Like I’m not always thinking about this shit? Like it’s not constantly on my mind?”

Roland moves his hand to place over Tom’s. “Just stay.”

Tom stares back at him, deflating. He finally nods and Roland offers him a smile, squeezing his hand. He starts to pull away, but Tom grabs his hand tight, keeping his head lowered and his eyes closed. Roland sinks back into the couch, leaving his hand in Tom’s grip. He watches as Tom sits still as a stone, breathing slow and quiet, their fingers tangled together between them. Their palms are sweaty and warm by the time Tom lifts his head and looks at him, his eyes gone wide and worried. Roland stares back at him, keeps staring until Tom swallows hard and looks away, sliding his hand free from Roland’s.

“Let me go grab you some blankets,” Roland says, his voice low. Tom nods, leaving his head bowed. He only glances up once as Roland sets the blankets and spare pillow next to him, telling him to get some sleep before flicking off the lights.

When Roland wakes in the morning, Tom is already gone.


	6. Eighty-Five, part I

Tom grows distant again after his latest night spent on Roland’s couch. The garage is closed for the holidays and Roland doesn’t want to push his luck by showing up uninvited on his doorstep. He worries, but waits out the holidays before showing up again after New Year’s, lunch in hand. They walk over to their usual bench to eat, but Tom doesn’t say much, mostly just nods or shakes his head. He looks more exhausted than usual, slumped over, his eyes tired and far away.

“Look,” Roland says, bumping Tom’s knee with his to get his attention, “I know you ain’t alright, so I’m not gonna ask if you are. But is this about before? If I said—”

“Nah,” Tom interrupts, staring off at the park’s singular, scraggly tree, “It ain’t you. It’s just…I need space. I’m sorry.”

Roland frowns, but nods. “If that’s what you need. Look, you got my number. You know where I live. You need anything, you call or you stop by. You show up at three in the morning, if you need to, I mean it. ‘Kay?”

Tom finally looks at him and forces a smile. “Okay.”

They toss their paper wrappers in the bin and walk back to the garage, shoulders brushing together every other step through two winter coats.

 

***

 

He goes two weeks without hearing from Tom. He drives by the shop once, on the side street that’s less visible from the garage itself, but from which he can still get a glance at the parking lot to check for Tom’s car. It’s there, and he promises himself he won’t do it again. He throws himself into work instead, treating every minor crime like it’s a case of life-or-death, intent on not spending his every waking moment worrying. His partner is exasperated, but doesn’t question it every time Roland insists on staying late, just wishes him a goodnight and heads on home to his family. Roland shuffles into the station early one Saturday morning, coffee in hand, only half-awake after another long night.

“You got a call from that garage that got robbed on the west side of town,” the woman from the front desk tells him before he’s even taken his first sip of coffee. “Two calls, actually. Didn’t leave a message, just wanted you to call back.”

He nods to her and sets down his mug, already punching in the numbers. His fingers tighten around the receiver as he listens to the dial tone. It rings twice, then gets picked up with a click.

“West Finger Auto, Larry speaking. How may we help you?”

“Detective West here,” Roland greets, forcing a smile into his voice, his stomach already sinking. “Don’t go telling me you guys got robbed again.”

Larry lets out a short laugh. “Nah, we’re fine. This is, uh, ‘bout Tom actually. Look, he hasn’t shown up for work once this week, and I’m no worrywart, but he’s usually on time. I’ve never had him just not show up like that, so I went by his place yesterday. He didn’t answer and I didn’t see his car around neither.”

“That right?” Roland asks, swallowing, already pushing out of his chair, digging his car keys from his pocket. “What time was this?”

“Uh, let’s see. It was after work. Six or seven maybe?”

“Alright, I’ll go see if I can’t find him around. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Appreciate it, Detective.”

 

***

 

He thanks the building super as he unlocks the door to Tom’s apartment. Roland steps inside and shuts the door behind him, scanning the room. It’s not anywhere as bad as Tom and Lucy’s house used to be, but that might just be because there isn’t enough stuff even present to create that kind of mess. The room contains a single battered armchair next to a fold-up table, with a clunky television set in one dark corner, each item looking like it was picked up off a curbside. The ashtray on the table is overflowing, the table otherwise cluttered with empty beer cans. Roland walks into the kitchen where the counters offer the same empty cans and a bottle with an amber sliver of whiskey left inside. The interior of the fridge is just as sparse, holding a stack of frozen dinners, fixings for sandwiches, and more beer. Roland moves forward, peering only briefly into the darkened bathroom before entering the cramped bedroom.

There’s an air mattress on the floor, the blankets on it unmade and in disarray. An upturned cardboard box next to it acts as a makeshift bedside table, with a little lamp and a worn bible on it. There’s another box on the other side of the mattress, upright, its flaps hanging open. Roland flicks on the lamp and looks inside. There’s a paper folder on the top of the box’s contents. Roland lifts it out, sending a handful of Polaroids tumbling free from it onto the discolored carpeting. He stares down at them — there’s Julie with a cake in front of her, Will riding his bicycle, a younger Lucy offering a tired smile as she holds a baby in her arms. He pulls one free from the pile — Tom lifting Julie and Will as they dangle laughing from his arms, a huge grin on his face like Roland’s never seen once on him. He swallows, gathering up the photos and tucking them back into the folder. He pauses, then takes one of the Polaroids, one with just Tom in it, a little younger and standing in front of their house on Shoepick Lane, and slips it into his coat pocket. He slides the folder back into the box and stands.

He continues his search, glancing through the closet’s collection of rumpled shirts before returning to the main room, thinking. He circles around, stopping to open the kitchen cupboards. He pauses, pulling the trash bag free from its plastic can. It’s a reused shopping bag, the name of a local liquor store stamped in red on it.

 

***

 

The liquor store is deserted at this early hour, with the exception of its middle-aged owner tidying up behind the front counter. The fluorescent lighting buzzes over their heads, one bulb flickering and on the verge of dying entirely.

“Guy with the dead kids, you mean?” the owner asks, squinting at the Polaroid over his thick-lensed glasses.

“Yeah,” Roland says, trying not to bristle at the phrasing, “that’s the one.”

“Yep, he comes ‘round here a lot,” the owner says as he tucks his glasses back into his shirt collar.

“He stop by this week?”

“Mm, yep, twice if I remember right. Once toward the beginning and uh, let’s see, think it might’ve been Wednesday. Could’ve been Thursday, though, I ain’t too sure.”

“You remember around what time this was?”

The owner tips his head toward the ceiling in thought, tapping his fingers against the glass counter-top. “In the morning, I think.”

“He say anything?”

“Nope, he never does,” the owner says, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose I would neither, if I was in his shoes.”

“Thanks,” Roland tells him and leaves in a hurry.

 

***

 

He checks the old Purcell place first, scanning for Tom and his car as he makes the drive over, with no luck. He parks on the street and circles around the house, finding a loose board in the back and wrenching it open just wide enough to push his way in, the rough edge of it catching on the fabric of his coat. Broken glass crunches under his boots as he stands in what was once Tom and Lucy’s living room and clicks on his flashlight. There’s a few scattered tags on the walls, the chemical smell of spray paint still lingering in the stagnant air. He makes a quick search of the house, but finds nothing of interest, no signs that anyone other than the local teenagers had been by recently. He huffs out a sigh and sits down on a dusty abandoned table to think.

His usual course of action would be to start checking all the local bars, but it’s too early for any of them to be open, never mind that there wouldn’t be much point of Tom going to a bar after making two trips to the liquor store in one week. Tom could have left town again, but Roland doubts he’d leave without that box of photos. He thinks it over a while before it occurs to him and he’s scrambling up off the table. He pushes back past the loose board, splinters scratching along his palms as he squeezes his way back out into the morning light.

 

***

 

Roland finds Tom’s car in the second gravel parking lot he checks at Devil’s Den, tucked away its farthest corner, obscured by the overgrown brush. He parks next to it and leans down, wiping condensation from the window before cupping his hands to the glass to get a better look inside. There’s a crumpled receipt on the dashboard and a couple of beer cans poking out from under the driver’s seat, but not much else. He straightens up and sighs, staring out into the woods. The trees fade back until they disappear into the mist that’s been rolling in every morning this month. He starts walking, the heels of his boots sinking into the damp earth with every step.

It’s been years and he only went down to that cave once during the investigation, but he still remembers the path to get down to it. He isn’t sure he’ll ever forget. He walks slower than he’d like to, but knows if he pushes himself too hard, his bad leg might just stiffen up and give up on him altogether. He keeps a steady pace instead, sending pebbles flying as they catch on the toes of his boots, flinching at every distant bird call. A few times, some small animal goes running like a shot through the underbrush and his heart jumps into his throat. The park seems deserted today, nothing but the sounds of the wind blowing through the dead-limbed trees and the mostly unseen wildlife. There’s been a cold snap recently and he supposes it’s keeping people away. He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps moving, thinking for the first time in a while of Wayne Hayes. He wishes he had him here in this moment, to see what he could see. If the leaves or dirt here have been disturbed, he wouldn’t know it.

The sandstone outcrops start to rise from the mist in the distance, more vague shadows than discernible landmarks, still partially obscured by the trees around them. Roland picks up his pace as he recognizes the cave Will Purcell was found in nearly five years earlier. As the rocks start to take a more definite shape through the mist, he catches sight of a spot of color between the grey tree trunks and the dead brush. He recognizes it as flannel as he gets closer and scrambles up the hill to the cave’s opening, catching himself as he stumbles on a rock in his path.

“Tom? Tom!”

His blood pounds in his ears as he pushes his way through the brush and catches sight of Tom on the ground at the mouth of the cave. He’s lying on his side, facing away from him, curled up tight. Roland falls to his knees, rolling Tom onto his back and pressing his fingers to the underside of his jaw. He’s freezing to the touch, but his pulse thumps slow under his fingers. Roland kneels back, trying to catch his breath, watching as Tom begins to stir on the ground, his eyelids fluttering and fingers twitching to life against the damp earth.

“Roland?” he mumbles, slurring, barely audible. He blinks his eyes open.

Tom shifts in an attempt to sit up and his coat and flannel shirt fall open. Roland’s breath catches in his throat, but his hands move on autopilot, reaching over to pull the pistol from Tom’s belt, making quick work of unloading the bullets and storing them in the pocket of his jeans, tucking the gun into his own belt. He stares down at Tom — his skin is blotchy and pale except for the swollen pink of his eyelids, his hair greasy and unwashed. There’s a shallow cut on his forehead, covered over with dried blood. His chin is streaked with dirt.

“Roland,” Tom murmurs again, his fingers grazing Roland’s knee.

“You goddamn idiot,” Roland whispers, “why didn’t you come to me?”

Roland gets his arms around him, helping him to sit up and rest against a rock. Tom grips his shoulder as he slumps against the cold sandstone, his eyes wandering slow across Roland’s face. His free hand starts to weave slowly toward Roland. Tom’s cold, dirt-stained fingertips brush underneath Roland’s eyes and come away wet. Roland blinks dully, hadn’t even realized he was crying.

“How much did you drink?” he asks, finally taking note of the empty bottles scattered across the forest floor.

“Dunno,” Tom says, swaying, his head bobbing before coming to rest against Roland’s neck. “A lot.”

“You’re fucking cold,” Roland says, pulling off his own jacket to wrap tight around Tom’s shoulders. “You could’ve froze to death out here, you know that? You could’ve—”

“I couldn’t do it, couldn’t go inside,” Tom breathes out against his neck, his voice faint. “Was too scared to even go in.”

Roland shakes his head, pulling each of Tom’s hands in turn between his own to rub some warmth into them. He’s shivering in his damp clothes, but seems unaware of it, just swaying gently against Roland as he lets his hands be warmed.

“…’m sorry, Roland,” he murmurs, lifting his head a little.

Roland just frowns, focusing on warming his hands as he prepares himself to stand and drag Tom the long walk back to the car. Tom presses in closer, the cold tip of his nose brushing against his jaw. He brushes his lips against the corner of Roland’s mouth. Roland freezes, his jaw clenching. Tom sighs and drops his head back onto his shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible.

“Alright, come on,” Roland says, standing with some difficulty. “Let’s get you out of here.”

 

***

 

He puts Tom in the backseat of his car and tucks his jacket around him, then cranks up the heat. He drives to the nearest emergency room, Tom too out of it to protest the matter. He hauls him inside and then sits in the waiting room, hunched over and staring at the floor. He’s barely aware of the other people in the room until a nurse finally taps him on the shoulder. She walks him back into the emergency room proper to talk to the doctor.

“He’ll be alright,” the doctor tells him, “but he should stay the night. You can pick him up in the morning…however, you should consider some other options. He said some worrying things that suggest he clearly isn’t in the best of mental states. There’s a mental hospital —”

“Look,” Roland cuts him off, flashing his badge, “I’m a state detective and he’s part of a current investigation. I’ll handle him. I need to stay with him tonight.”

It’s hardly any kind of explanation, but the doctor only blinks and nods, gesturing for a nurse to show him where they’re keeping Tom. The nurse lets him into a cramped little room with a singular hospital bed where Tom sleeps under thin white covers. Roland pulls the scuffed chair from the room’s corner and takes a seat at his side, looking Tom over — there’s a bandage on the scape on his forehead, an IV stuck in the joint of one thin, pale elbow. He frowns at his hands where there’s still dark earth caught underneath his fingernails. He’s sleeping deeply, his chest rising and falling in a slow wave. Roland sits there, watching him. At some point, he drifts off and when he jerks awake, he sees Tom is awake, too, staring up at the white ceiling tiles.

“Hey,” Roland rasps as he sits up.

Tom doesn’t so much as turn to look at him.

 

***

 

In the morning, Roland takes Tom home with him. Tom doesn’t say a word the entire trip, just sits motionless in the passenger seat as he stares out the window. He doesn’t even speak up to protest when Roland pulls in and parks in front of his place. Tom just follows him, wordless, up the stairs and into Roland’s apartment.

“Let me get you some clean clothes, so you can grab a shower,” Roland tells him.

He sets out a towel and a change of clothes in the bathroom, pausing to pocket a box of razor blades and an old bottle of pain killers before letting him in. Tom slips past him into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

While Tom showers, Roland busies himself around the apartment. He takes the razors, half the damn medicine cabinet, and his bottle of good whiskey and puts them in the little safe he keeps in his closet. He tucks Tom’s gun, as well as his own, on top of the jumble before re-locking it. The remaining booze in the apartment gets poured out and the containers buried under the rest of the garbage in the bin. He opens the kitchen window and sprays air freshener. Then he locks and deadbolts the front door. The spare key from the kitchen drawer gets slid into his pocket. He supposes there’s nothing to be done about the windows, but he hopes that Tom isn’t so desperate to leave as to resort to that.

Roland is sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in front of himself, staring at it more than drinking it, when Tom emerges from the shower, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, Roland’s shirt and a pair of old flannel pajama pants hanging loosely off him. He stands in the doorway until Roland puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him toward the bedroom.

“Look,” Roland says as he pulls back the covers, “why don’t you get some sleep in a real bed. We can talk about things later.”

Tom gets into Roland’s bed and pulls the covers up over himself, rolling onto his side to face the wall.

“I’m gonna grab you some water,” Roland tells him, standing at the foot of the bed, already not wanting to let Tom out of his sight. “Try to drink it, alright? Doctor says you’re probably still dehydrated.”

Tom tips his chin in the barest of nods and Roland takes that as his cue to leave the room. He spends the rest of the day staring at case files without really reading them, the television left on at a low murmur in the background. He calls up the station to tell them he’ll be out sick again after spending the night in the emergency room. Tom gets up once or twice to use the bathroom, shuffling along the hallway like a ghost. Roland cooks pasta for dinner and Tom just shakes his head when he asks if he wants to eat. He ends up eating it alone at the table, all too aware of Tom lying in his bed just a room away.

He goes to bed early, feeling exhausted after a day spent doing mostly nothing, sliding his legs under the covers next to Tom. Roland sits there a moment, the lamp still on, peering over at him. Tom swallows, but keeps his eyes fixed on the wall.

“We’re gonna talk about this in the morning,” Roland sighs before switching off the lamp and laying down next to him.


	7. Eighty-Five, part II

In the weeks that follow, Roland isn’t sure it’s gonna work out at all. Tom barely says two words to him, mostly just answers Roland by nodding or shaking his head. He returns to work, but spends the rest of his time on Roland’s couch, sleeping or lying motionless with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Roland drives him to his meetings every week — AA on Sundays, a grief support group on Wednesdays, both held in the same cramped little community center downtown. The first night, Roland offers to go inside with him, but Tom just shakes his head and gets out of the car. Roland waits for him in the parking lot, worrying, feeling like a parent picking up their problem child after school, hoping they’ve gone the day without causing more trouble. He spends those nights chain-smoking and looking at case files under the dim pools of street-lamp light until he spots Tom in the rearview mirror, slipping out the open double doors with the rest of the scattering crowd.

Tom starts talking again around the end of the month. Roland’s busy with the coffee maker, listening to the now familiar sounds of Tom getting up and folding his blankets over the back of the couch. He hears the shuffle of Tom’s feet on the carpet and glances over to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, watching.

“Morning,” Tom rasps out, his voice gone scratchy with disuse.

Roland looks at him in surprise. “Morning,” he replies. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, thank you,” Tom says as he slips into his chair. He sits there, hunched over, hands moving restless on the table as Roland sets a mug in front of him.

Roland sits down across from him and sips from his own mug. “So, you’re talking again, huh?”

Tom looks up from his mug at him, shaky like he’s forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “I suppose so.”

“Well, good,” Roland tells him, smiling.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Tom says, his fingers jittery where he warms them on his mug, “about paying my half of the rent. If I’m gonna stay here. I mean, they probably wouldn’t have even kept me on at the garage if it weren’t for you.”

“Nah, this ain’t about that. I’m not gonna take your money, Tom.”

“Look—”

“No,” Roland says, his voice firm, still smiling, “forget about it. Save up, get a better place in the future. A place with more than one window. Some trees, maybe.”

Tom glances up at him again and nods. They lapse back into silence, but this time it’s a comfortable one, unlike the past weeks. Tom had hovered around the apartment, not speaking, barely even looking Roland in the eye. It had left Roland feeling like he was living with a ghost, had him thinking that perhaps Tom was beyond what little help he could offer.

 

***

 

They ease into a routine as the weeks continue to pass — waking up early for their respective jobs, swapping turns in the bathroom to get ready for the day. They usually have enough time in the mornings to share a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee before departing in their separate cars. They spend the majority of the day apart, then rejoin at dinner, assuming Roland isn’t caught up in a case that has him working late. Roland cooks most nights, with Tom by his side, dead set on helping nowadays. When he stays late at work, he often returns home to find Tom has already cooked, the remaining half of the meal left for him in covered pots and pans. One Wednesday night, he arrives home to an empty apartment, Tom already off to his group meeting, a post-it note left on the kitchen table letting him know leftovers are in the fridge. Roland stares down at the note in his hand, traces over Tom’s messy scrawl with his thumb, smiling.

Some nights, Roland gets woken from bed and called into work. He slips out the front door in the dark, trying to keep from waking Tom where he lies on the couch, half-hidden by blankets. Tom’s schedule remains mostly consistent. He comes through the front door around five-fifty most nights, smelling like engine exhaust and oil, shutting himself in the bathroom to shower first thing. On Sundays, the garage is closed and, most Sundays, Roland has the day off as well and spends it inside with Tom. Sometimes, they go out to eat together, just to get out of the apartment. Before, Roland saved Sundays for his scattered dating life, but he puts a pause on that, shrugs off his partner’s raised eyebrows whenever witnesses flirt and are only met with cool professionalism.

Things start to get better, even if there’s slip-ups along the way. Some days, Tom falls back into silence or spends most of the day on the couch under blankets, like he’s recovering from the flu. On those days, Roland sits in the armchair and leaves the television at a low murmur, keeps him company.

One night, Roland is pacing around the apartment, the sky already long gone dark outside, Tom several hours later than he should be. Roland calls the garage, but only reaches their voicemail. He yanks on his jacket, ready to go drive around town looking for him, only to step out the door and find Tom parked right out front, sitting in his car in the dark driveway. He spots Roland coming down the steps and gets out. He swings the car door shut too hard, flinching at the sound, swaying a little on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says, before Roland can so much as open his mouth. He clutches at Roland’s arm, eyes already welling up. “I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright, c’mon,” Roland says. He puts a hand on his back, guiding him back up the stairs and into the apartment.

The smell of beer on his breath has Roland imagining its several years earlier, just another night spent picking Tom up from some bar, dragging him back to his apartment rather than taking him to his own cold, empty house. Tom keeps apologizing even as Roland shushes him. Doesn’t stop until Roland pulls him close and holds him, which at least startles him into silence.

“I ain’t mad,” Roland whispers into his ear. “No one gets there all at once, alright?”

Tom says nothing, just nods against Roland’s shoulder. His arms raise up from his sides, slow and hesitant, before winding around Roland’s back and holding tight. Roland squeezes his shoulder, keeps his arms around him until Tom stops shaking.

 

***

 

Roland gets home early after being called in Sunday morning, opens the front door and startles Tom where he’s hunched over on the couch. His cardboard box of photo albums is on the coffee table, flaps open. Polaroids and children’s drawings are fanned out in front of him.

“Sorry,” Roland says, sliding the door shut slow behind him.

Tom shakes his head, setting the photo in his trembling hands onto the table with the rest. He swallows hard, finally says, “It’s Julie’s birthday today.”

Roland comes over to sit next to him on the couch, glances over the spread of Polaroids, a decade’s worth of memories on little squares of glossy photo paper. The faces of Tom and his family stare up at him. Roland reaches out to take the photo Tom was holding: Lucy, younger, but just as sour-faced as Roland remembers her, holding Julie, just a chubby-cheeked toddler.

“You ever hear from her?”

“Lucy?” Tom nods his head slow. “She called a few times after she left. ‘Round Christmas once. Then on Will’s birthday another time. Just to talk, I guess. Haven’t heard from her in a couple years now, though.”

Roland nods, setting the Polaroid back down. Tom shuffles through the pile, pulls out another photo, one of Will and Julie sitting cross-legged on the carpet, engrossed in a book in Will’s hands. He smiles to himself as he hands the photo to Roland.

“She learned to read so quick. I think Will taught her more than the damn school did. They were so smart, you know? Both of ‘em were smarter than me and Lucy—I dunno how that happened.” Tom chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “They could’ve been…”

Tom trails off, wipes at his eyes, drops his hands to his knees where they continue to tremble. Roland places the photo back with the others and reaches out to take his hand. Tom fumbles his palm upwards and squeezes back tight, their fingers lacing together.

“You wanna get outta here? We could drive somewhere,” Roland offers, his voice soft.

Tom twists to look at Roland and nods, his eyes glassy. He gives Roland’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it.

“Let me just change out of this damn suit,” Roland says. He reaches out to squeeze the back of Tom’s neck as he stands, his skin warm beneath his hand. Tom’s eyes flutter shut at the touch.

When he steps back out of the bedroom in jeans, Tom’s setting his box back in its usual spot in the corner of the living room. They spend the rest of the afternoon in Roland’s car, the radio on and the windows rolled down, letting in the warm spring breeze. Roland drives them out of town, buildings giving way to nothing but wilderness around them, passing by in a blur of green. Tom leans back in the passenger seat, watching the landscape roll past. Roland feels his eyes on him once or twice, but is unable to catch him looking.

Roland drives a good hour or two out of town. They stop to eat at a roadside diner, mostly crowded with sleepy-eyed truckers. They sit across from each other in a back booth with lumpy seats. When the bored-looking waitress comes to take their order, Tom snorts as Roland orders a shake alongside his dinner. They linger over their food, making conversation and watching other customers come in and out as they eat. It’s dark by the time they leave the diner and head back home. On the drive back, Roland fantasizes about turning the car in the opposite direction and driving them right out of the state entirely, never to return. He’s ready to joke about it to Tom, but when he turns to look, Tom is fast asleep in the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, swaying with the motion of the car.

 

***

 

Mid-July, the state gets hit by a heat wave. Roland and his partner spend most of their shifts bitching about it, sweating through their shirts, praising the invention of air conditioning every time they step back into the station. He arrives home around sundown most nights, just as the temperature starts cooling down enough to be bearable again. When night falls, Tom and him throw open all the windows in the apartment to let in the cooler air along with the sound of crickets chirping in the bushes.

They spend most of their evenings after dinner together in the living room watching television. Roland dodges the news and cop shows, avoiding any mention of death, settling on sitcom reruns and game shows that neither of them really pay any attention to. It’s more background noise than anything; nowadays Tom often has one of his AA books in hand and only glances up to mutter a quiz answer under his breath.

Tonight, Tom’s latest book is sitting splayed face-down on the coffee table after only a few pages, Tom slouched down on the couch and yawning every few minutes, his jaw clicking with the force of it. Roland notes as he sinks a little lower, moment by moment, until a particularly lengthy commercial break has his chin tipping onto his chest. He dips sideways, coming to rest against Roland’s shoulder. Roland stills, staring down at the same page of his case file for a good ten minutes before the show ends with a round of applause that has Tom jerking awake.

“Shit, sorry,” Tom mutters, sitting up, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Roland says. He lets his fingers reach out and brush Tom’s sleeve. “You were fine where you were.”

Tom glances over, expression blank. He remains motionless until Roland tugs gently at his sleeve, which gets him to slide back over and lower himself to lean against Roland’s shoulder again. Slow, like he’s half-expecting Roland to shove him away instead. Roland puts his arm around him and pulls him a little closer. He can feel Tom’s heart beating hard, can practically feel the blush coming off him in waves of heat. He says nothing, just stays still and pretends to read over his file as Tom’s pulse slowly but surely returns to a normal rate. Tom doesn’t drift off again, but remains there with Roland’s arm slung around him, his hair tickling Roland’s neck. They stay like that through most of a talk show until Roland finds himself yawning as well.

“Should get some sleep,” Tom says, quiet, shifting against Roland’s side. Roland sighs in agreement, untangling himself from Tom, his fingers catching on the ridge of Tom’s collarbone as he pulls his arm free. Tom busies himself with taking his folded blankets from the back of the couch as Roland stands and stretches. He grabs their mostly empty glasses of iced tea from the coffee table, condensation beading off the glasses and down his hands as he walks into the kitchen.

“Roland?”

“Yeah?” Roland asks over his shoulder as he empties their cups into the sink and sets them down.

Tom looks at him a short while before clearing his throat. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tom,” Roland says back. He heads into the bathroom to get cleaned up, then lies awake in bed, listening to Tom doing the same, only a single wall between them.

 

***

 

Roland comes home late one night after him and his partner catch a fresh crime scene. There turns out to be nothing much to investigate, the story simple enough: a man comes home one night, blows away his wife and two kids, then turns the gun on himself. He supposes no man, even those employed in his field, ever truly gets used to looking over that kind of scene. His partner rubs a hand over his mouth and averts his eyes from the children’s bodies where they still lay in their beds. Roland finds the sight digging up the memories of Will Purcell’s body, peaceful in death except for the dried blood pooled on the rock beneath his head. The father’s head is blown clean off and there’s a moment where his mind’s eye flashes to Tom lying outside that same cave, rolling him over only to find this time, there’s no pulse to take.

“You alright?” Tom asks from across the table.

Roland glances up from his plate to find Tom watching him, a little line creasing between his eyebrows. Tom’s plate sits already finished in front of him. He prepped everything for dinner, then waited for Roland to return before cooking it, claiming that he hadn’t been very hungry himself yet. The windows are all wide open, the nighttime chorus of crickets already in full swing.

“Yeah, sorry,” Roland mumbles, poking at the remainder of his dinner before setting his fork down in defeat. “Just had a long day, caught a bad crime scene is all.”

“Oh,” Tom says, but he doesn’t push and Roland isn’t about to specify the details — figures Tom has enough of those thoughts bouncing around his head as is, isn’t about to go and add to them.

“Hey, you already cooked, you don’t gotta—” Roland says as Tom takes his plate from him.

“It’s fine,” Tom mumbles, stacking their plates together, “let me handle it. Go watch some TV or something.”

Roland stares at his back as Tom fills the sink, his shirt sleeves rolled up loose around his elbows, the scent of dish soap permeating the air. He watches him until Tom looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. Roland takes that as his cue to get up and find something else to do.

He brushes his teeth and grabs a shower, glad to wash another day’s worth of sweat away, especially after today. When he steps out of the bathroom, Tom is already sitting on the couch, focused on the book in his hands. Roland stands there in the hallway, watching him, his face illuminated by the glow of the television screen. He stops before Tom can catch him at it, stepping into the living room and sliding onto the couch next to him, too close. Tom blinks down at his book as Roland’s leg presses against his. Roland throws a casual arm over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against Tom’s shoulder. Tom’s fingers tighten on the pages of his book, but then he’s leaning back, pressing against Roland’s side, their bodies fitting together like they’ve been doing this all along. They sit there until Tom starts to yawn between shows, stretching a little, his shoulders arching into Roland’s side.

“Look,” Roland says, quiet, his mouth almost touching Tom’s ear as he lets his thumb graze a lingering line down his neck, “you don’t gotta stay on the couch.”

Tom twists to look at him, his eyes gone wide, but he nods. “I was just, uh, gonna get cleaned up.”

Roland closes the windows and then lies in the dark of the bedroom, waiting, his fingertips tingling as he listens to the muffled sounds of Tom brushing his teeth one room over. The bathroom door opens, spilling out a brief flood of light into the hallway before Tom switches off the light, throwing them both into darkness. Roland hears as his footsteps slow and hesitate in the doorway until he pats the empty side of his bed. Tom shuffles the rest of the way into the room and slides into bed next to him. He yawns a little, Roland smelling his toothpaste — their toothpaste, the same damn tube that they share between themselves, that rests next to the cup that holds both their toothbrushes — as his mouth opens and shuts.

They lay together, side by side in the dark, motionless. The only sounds in the room are their breathing and the low, even hum of the air conditioning unit by the window. Roland’s restraint is seconds away from breaking when Tom rolls over and onto him in one easy motion, resting his elbows on either side of Roland’s head as he presses their mouths together.

“Fuck,” Roland gasps as they break apart.

Tom breaths softly, staring down at him, barely visible in the dark. Roland reaches up to cup his face in both hands, thumbing over his lower lip as Tom swallows. He can feel Tom already hard against his thigh. He reaches down to press their hips more firmly together, Tom dropping his head down to sigh against the shell of his ear.

“Yeah?” Roland whispers to him, pressing one hand underneath Tom’s shirt to fan his fingers across the broad flat of his back.

“Roland,” Tom whispers back, letting his weight settle fully on top of him. He traces his fingers along Roland’s jaw as he presses his lips back to Roland’s.

They fumble together in the dark, neither of them lasting long. Roland pulls off his own boxers to wipe them both clean before pulling Tom back to him. Tom sighs, gone boneless in Roland’s arms as Roland holds him, strokes one hand through his hair as they both drift off.

 

***

 

They don’t talk about it. Roland spends his waking hours lingering over casual touches — his hand slipping across the small of Tom’s back as they cook dinner, Tom’s fingers grazing his as he takes his morning cup of coffee, his lips on the damp end of a half-smoked cigarette passed between their fingers. One morning, Tom leaves the bathroom door open in the middle of a conversation and Roland ends up lingering in the doorway, a cigarette in hand, watching as Tom shaves, standing there in his undershirt, their eyes meeting in the foggy mirror. When night falls, they press together in Roland’s bed without a word, only lit by the hazy moonlight that filters in through the curtains.

They reserve that part of their relationship for the dark, for whispering to each other in Roland’s bed, until one Sunday morning when they’re washing yesterday’s dishes. Tom’s handing the dishes to Roland to dry and store in the kitchen cabinets when their eyes keep catching on each other’s. When it happens again, Roland sets the next dish in the drainer, drops the kitchen towel next to it and then turns Tom’s face to his with one hand. Surprise blooms over Tom’s expression for one brief moment before Roland presses their mouths together and Tom drops his next plate back into the soapy water, giving back as good as he gets. Roland can feel Tom’s damp hands spreading dish soap bubbles across his shirt, but he pays it no mind, just keeps kissing him until they’re forced to break apart for air.

“Fuck,” Tom gasps as Roland turns him around and presses him against the counter.

He works Tom’s belt and zipper open as he kisses along his neck. Tom clenches his hands on the countertop, presses back against him. Roland bites the junction of his neck and shoulder and starts to work his hand over him. It doesn’t take long before Tom’s reaching back to squeeze his hip with one hand as he moans, the motion of his hips stuttering to a halt.

Roland smiles against his neck, keeps pressing lazy kisses to his skin as he reaches past him to wipe his hand off on the kitchen towel. Tom is still for a moment, catching his breath, before he turns around to hold Roland’s face in both hands and kiss him. Roland sighs into his mouth. He’s just starting to get into it when Tom breaks away again. Tom stares at him for a moment before dropping to his knees and working his belt open.

“Hey,” Roland says, blinking. “You don’t gotta—”

Tom looks up, his face flushed and his hair disheveled. “I know, but I want to,” he says as he pops the button open on his jeans.

“Well, alright,” Roland breathes, bracing himself against the counter.

He groans as Tom gets his mouth around him, sliding a hand into his hair and stroking it gentle as Tom’s head bobs under his hand. Just the sight of him on his knees — eyes closed and eyebrows knit together, his thumbs pressing indents into Roland’s hips, all so clear in the morning light — might do more for him than the act itself. He murmurs encouragement, keeps petting Tom’s hair, trying to keep his hips still.

“Tom,” he groans. “I’m gonna—ah, fuck, _Tom_.”

Tom keeps his mouth on him, only pulling away when Roland sinks back against the counter, panting. He breaths out a laugh as Tom spits in the kitchen sink and rinses his mouth out, wiping his lips dry on the kitchen towel. They both do up their jeans and belts, glancing at each other. Roland reaches out one lazy hand and catches his fingers in the collar of Tom’s shirt, reeling him in for another kiss.

“Roland,” Tom murmurs as they break apart. He presses his face against Roland’s neck, his lashes tickling against the skin there. “Roland.”

“Yeah,” Roland whispers back, rubbing a hand down Tom’s back, “c’mere.”

He untangles himself from Tom and laces their fingers together to pull him over to the couch. He lays himself down first, then pulls Tom to lay on top of him. Tom huffs out a little sigh against his neck and falls silent. Roland smiles, twisting his fingers into his curls, reaching his other arm around his back as they lay pressed together.

 

***

 

As the weather cools down, Roland finds it more and more of an excuse to spend hours in bed with Tom whenever they have the free time. They curl together beneath the blankets, alternating between sex and just lying together, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Tonight, Roland throws an extra quilt over the blankets before they get into bed together. Tom has his head nestled in the crook of Roland’s shoulder as they lay together talking.

“Does it still hurt?” Tom asks, tracing one gentle finger down the indented scar on Roland’s thigh.

“Sometimes. Not like it used to, though. What about you?”

“Me?” Tom asks, brow crinkling in confusion.

“This,” Roland whispers, leaning over Tom on one elbow, pulling up the sleeve of his undershirt to trace over the burn scar on his left arm. It’s a smooth patch, smaller than his palm, faded out but mostly noticeable in its interruption of the dark hair on his arms. “I never asked how you got it.”

“Mm?” Tom glances down through half-lidded eyes. “Accident at work. When I was young, had just dropped outta school. Hurt like a bitch when it happened.”

Roland lets his fingers drift away, leans down his head to brush his lips gentle over the scar. He smiles at the soft little noise Tom makes in his throat, looks back up at him.

“Shit,” Tom says, staring at him.

Roland snorts, grinning. “What?”

“You,” Tom says.

Roland laughs, laying back down and pulling Tom over to his side. Tom lets himself be moved, resting his head on Roland’s chest. Roland smiles, tucking his arm in tight around Tom and letting his other hand push his hair back into place behind his ears. His hair always gets a little crazy after they roll around together, Roland unable to keep his hands out of it.

“What ‘bout me?” Roland prompts, the smile still on his lips.

“Just,” Tom mumbles, “I never been with anyone like you before.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear I’m special,” Roland jokes, watching him, thinking. “You been with men before though, right?”

“Yeah. Just…not in a long time. And even then, it was never the type of thing where we—” Tom pauses, chews his lip. “—where we stuck around afterwords.”

“Mm, I know how that goes,” Roland says.

“You ever had something like this?” Tom asks, gesturing between the two of them.

“A couple times when I was still a kid,” Roland tells him, thinking back to the little creek hidden by trees near his family’s ranch, lying in the grass with another boy’s hand in his, “and then when I was over overseas.”

“What happened?”

“Hm? Ended when the war did. We both got shipped back home, never talked to each other again,” Roland says with a shrug. “That was that.”

“You ever miss him?” Tom asks, resting his chin on Roland’s chest so he can look at him.

“I wonder where he ended up sometimes,” Roland admits, stroking a hand down Tom’s back, “but I can’t say I really miss him. I don’t really think about him all that much, to be honest with you. ‘Specially not now.”

Tom snorts at that, but he does so smiling, leaning in the same time Roland does to press their lips together again.

 

***

 

They spend the holidays together, tucked away in the safety of Roland’s apartment. Roland excuses himself from the station Christmas party, his partner’s invitation to his family dinner, and his mother’s invitation to theirs. His partner raises his eyebrows in surprise as Roland turns him down.

“Must be getting pretty serious, huh?” he asks, peering at Roland over his reading glasses.

“What’s that?” Roland asks, already pulling on his coat, ready to head home on time, for once.

“With whatever lady you’re seeing.”

“Oh ho,” calls another detective from the neighboring desk, arching his eyebrows. “Must be one hell of a woman to make an honest man outta you, West.”

“Sorry, boys,” Roland says, shining them both a brilliant grin, “I don’t kiss and tell.”

He walks out of the station to a volley of catcalls, laughing to himself, his mind already filled with the promise of spending the holidays locked up in his apartment with no one but Tom for company.

Tom calls his parents on Christmas Day, shaking his head when Roland offers to give him some privacy. He spends the whole call with Roland’s head in his lap, dozing as Tom cards his fingers through his hair, talking to his parents in turns.

“Yeah, mom,” he says, peering down at Roland with a smile, “I’m doing alright. I promise.”


	8. Eighty-Six

“Mm, you’re going in today?” Tom mumbles, stirring beneath the blankets as Roland pushes himself up to turn off his alarm clock.

“I’m on call this weekend,” Roland murmurs in response, running a hand down Tom’s back. He lets Tom reach out and loop an arm around his waist to pull him back under the covers. They slide together, kissing, Tom’s bare skin sleep-warm beneath his hands. Tom breathes out a sigh as they break apart, his eyes half-lidded, not fully awake. “I gotta get going or I’m gonna be late.”

“I’ll go out for the groceries, then,” Tom offers, releasing his hold on Roland’s arms.

“Thanks,” Roland whispers, pressing one more kiss to his hair before finally pushing himself out of bed.

Tom settles his head back onto his pillow, letting Roland pull the covers back up around him. The room is still dark, only the slightest hint of early morning light starting to creep through the bottom of the window. When Roland emerges from the shower, Tom’s already asleep again, neatly folded on his own half of the bed. He dresses as quiet as he can, listening to the soft sounds of Tom breathing a few feet away. He slips the bedroom door shut behind him, leaving Tom in the dark to sleep. Roland heads off to work in a good mood, humming along with the radio as he drives. Him and his partner spend the first part of their shift planning, case files spread out on their desks, outlining what needs to get done.

“We should call that guy—what’s his name?” His partners snaps his fingers. “Paul. We should get a hold of him, see if we can set up a meeting. You got his number, right?”

“Yeah,” Roland says, patting his jacket. He frowns, shuffles through the mess of papers and comes up empty. “Shit, I forgot my damn notebook at home.”

“Really?” His partner raises his eyebrows in exasperation.

“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Roland defends, shrugging. “If we’re stopping by that place on Atlantic Avenue, my place is on the way, anyways.”

“Alright, alright, let’s get going then.”

They keep up the discussion of current cases on the drive over, the day still early enough for traffic to be light. Roland pulls up to the curb outside his apartment and leaves the car running. He takes the stairs as quick as he can manage. His keys are in his hand and he’s reaching for the door when it starts to swing open. He dodges it as Tom steps out and almost runs right into him, grabbing hold of his arms like he’s afraid he’s going to knock Roland off the landing.

“Shit, sorry,” Tom says, hands still on Roland’s arms, laughing. “You forget something?”

“Yeah, my damn notepad. Gotta quit bringing my work home, I guess.”

Tom and him maneuver around each other, allowing Roland to slip into the apartment as Tom heads down the stairs to his own car. Roland finds his notepad on the coffee table where he tossed it the night before when watching television had turned into Tom’s hands wandering away from his book and onto him. He tucks it into his coat pocket and heads back to his car. His partner glances at him, but says nothing until Roland is pulling around the corner.

“So you really do got Purcell staying at your place, huh?” he asks.

“What?” Roland snaps, sharper than he intends to.

His partner blinks at him. “I heard some guys down at the station say he was living with you is all. Thought they were kidding.”

Several joking responses that could downplay the situation run through Roland’s mind in quick succession, but in the end, he finds himself just grunting in acknowledgment.

“Hey, I don’t mean anything by it,” his partner deflects, holding up his hands. “I suppose I’d feel responsible for the guy too, if I had caught that case.”

“Yeah,” Roland agrees, forcing his voice back into neutrality, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

He becomes more careful after that, making certain to leave the apartment before Tom does so they don’t head out the door side by side. He makes sure not to forget anything, patting his coat pocket for the shape of his notepad every morning. His partner doesn’t mention his choice of roommates again and if anyone else around the station talks about it, Roland doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t tell Tom about it and he tries not to become paranoid, but finds himself driving out of town the next time they go out for dinner together.

“Dunno about you, but I could use a change of scenery,” he says when Tom asks.

“Sure,” Tom agrees, slouching easy in the passenger’s seat, the breeze blowing his hair back as they fly down the highway.

 

***

 

Roland goes out for groceries the next week, taking turns at it like him and Tom usually do. He drives down to the IGA he frequents, just a few minutes away from his apartment.

He hears someone say his name as he reaches the storefront, looking up the grocery list in his hands, half the items on the list jotted down in Tom’s handwriting. He finds Lori standing there in front of the shopping carts. She looks exactly the same as the last time he talked to her, right down to her hands twisting on the strap of the same damn purse.

“Lori,” he says, surprised, his mouth already lifting in a smile.

“I thought it was you,” she says, beaming. She releases her purse strap to pull him into a hug that he returns easily. “It’s been forever. How’ve you been?”

“I been good, how—oh, shit, excuse us,” Roland says, taking Lori’s arm and pulling them her aside as another shopper pushes past them to get to the carts.

“You know,” Lori says, “there’s a little cafe just a couple doors down. If you’re not busy, I mean. I’d love to catch up.”

“Yeah, hell, why not? I’m in no rush,” Roland says, surprised by just how glad he is to see her again.

The cafe is bustling with the weekend morning crowd, but they manage to snag a table in the corner. They both set their mugs of coffee down and glance across the table at each other, still smiling, surrounded by a sea of chattering voices and clinking cups.

“You know, I can’t say I’ve ever see you around this way. Ain’t it a little far from your place?”

“Oh,” Lori says as she warms her hands on her mug, “I just moved. Again, actually. I’m right over in your part of town, nowadays.”

“Yeah? You moving up in the lucrative field of poultry science?” Roland asks with a grin.

Lori laughs, setting her mug down and starting to turn it in a slow circle on the table. “Well, no. I just was living with someone before and things just didn’t work out.”

“How’s that?”

“Mm, I suppose I thought he was nice, and it turns out I thought wrong,” Lori says, flashing him a rueful smile. She catches herself and stops fidgeting with her mug, folding her hands into her lap instead. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to—I mean, how’ve you been?”

“Hey, you don’t gotta apologize. I’m doing good, nothing much to talk about, though.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee. “Same place, same job. Different partner at work, I guess. He’s an alright guy.”

“Well, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” Lori tells him with a smile, pausing before glancing back up at him. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Oh, well.” Roland falters, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Well, not really.”

“Not really, huh?” Lori asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Uh, nothing serious, I mean. Just dating, y’know.”

“Always the ladies’ man,” Lori jokes, smiling, raising her mug like she’s toasting him.

 

***

 

A week after Roland runs into Lori at the IGA, Tom takes up going to church again. The first Sunday morning, Roland groans and rolls over in bed, stretching out his arm to find Tom’s side of the bed still warm, but empty. He blinks into wakefulness, checking his alarm clock. He drifts off again to the muffled sounds of Tom showering, waking a second time to find Tom standing in front of the closet, rifling through the hangers.

“Hey.”

Tom startles, a hanger with a jacket on it in hand. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”

“Where you off to?” Roland asks, lifting himself up on one elbow.

“Church.” Tom shrugs into his jacket, buttons the last button on dress shirt. “I guess, quite a few people from group go and I uh, thought maybe—maybe I should get back to going is all.”

“Alright. You wanna borrow a tie?”

Tom snorts, smiles. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to Roland. “I haven’t worn a tie since…well, you know. Think I’ll manage without.”

“Mm,” Roland hums, reaching out to pull him back down into a kiss, Tom coming easily into his arms. “Well, I’ll just be here, sleeping in while you do the Sunday song and dance, huh?”

“I’ll be back in a hour or so,” Tom says, stealing one last kiss before pushing off the bed. He hesitates in the bedroom doorway, turning back to smile at Roland before heading out the door.

Tom keeps up with church after that, pulling himself up out of bed early every Sunday to get ready until Roland gets used to it and starts sleeping right through his departure. Roland is usually awake and showered by the time he gets back, the exact time of his return varying if he gets pulled into a conversation with one of his AA buddies. Unlike when he had been dating Lori, Tom never once pushes or so much as asks Roland to go with him, so Roland doesn’t question the development much.

 

***

 

“Sorry, I got to talking,” Tom says, back later than usual one Sunday. He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it over the back of one of the dining chairs, loosens a few buttons on his shirt. “I was thinking about helping out with one of the charity programs. Guess that ex of yours helps run a lot of them. Lori?”

“She’s still going there, huh?” Roland asks from the couch.

“Yeah,” Tom says as he opens the fridge and pulls out their pitcher of iced tea. “I was talking to her some after mass.”

“Oh.” Roland looks over from the TV to find Tom at the counter, pouring his tea, watching him. “Yeah, I ran into her a while back at the IGA. We caught up a bit.”

“Yeah, she did mention that.”

“We grabbed some coffee together is all,” Roland says, shrugging. “I haven’t seen her around since.”

“Well, she was asking about you.”

“What’d she ask?” Roland asks with a snort.

“Just if I still saw you around much. How you been, that kind of thing. If you been seeing anyone.”

“And what’d you say?”

“Said I see you every damn night in bed,” Tom deadpans.

Roland laughs. “That right? Suppose you won’t be going back to church then, huh?”

“Think she still has a thing for you.” Tom raises his eyebrows. He carries his glass over to the couch and sits down, too far away for Roland’s liking.

“Hey, c’mere,” he mumbles, tugging him closer as Tom smiles in spite of himself. “If she keeps bugging you, you tell her to wait her damn turn.”

Tom snorts, but sets his glass down and lets Roland pull him close. He slides a hand along Roland’s cheek as they kiss, his fingers cold and damp with condensation.

 

***

 

“Shit, what the hell happened?” Roland says, dropping the wooden spoon back into the pan he was stirring as he catches sight of the gauze wrapped messily around Tom’s hand.

“Nothing,” Tom grumbles, shrugging. “Got burnt is all.”

“You sure—”

“I’m fine, Roland,” Tom says, smiling. He lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers. “I’m gonna shower, alright?”

He disappears down the hall, Roland shouting after him, “Should be burn cream in the first aid kit!”

He finishes up cooking as Tom showers, sliding a lid over the pan to keep the food warm. Then he goes to the hallway cabinet to rummage for the first aid kit. He digs out the unopened tube of burn cream, cursing to himself as he checks the expiration date. He chucks it into the kitchen trash and grabs the Neosporin from the plastic bin of jumbled medications instead. He gathers it up alongside a roll of gauze and a bottle of ibuprofen before rapping his knuckles on the bathroom door as soon as the shower shuts off.

“Hold on a damn second,” Tom calls back.

Roland waits, listening to Tom shuffling around behind the door before the lock clicks. He pushes into the bathroom to find Tom fully dressed in fresh clothes, his shirt damp across the front from the water still beading along his skin.

“Sorry,” Roland scoffs, “didn’t mean to stop you from preserving your modesty. Lemme see, will you?”

Tom rolls his eyes, but takes a seat on the closed toilet and holds out his hand. “I’m amazed you don’t gotta play doctor every time I get so much as a papercut.”

“Little more than a papercut there,” Roland says, frowning at the state of Tom’s hand, half his palm gone angry red and blistered. “The hell happened?

“Well, car engines tend to get hot. Figured you would know that having been in motorpool and all.”

“Alright, smartass.” Roland snorts, shaking his head, then turns to grab a towel from the rack. He presses Tom’s hand between two edges of the towel, carefully patting the burned area dry before unfolding the towel and grabbing the Neosporin.

“Sorry,” Tom says, quiet and sounding so sincerely repentant that Roland loses track of what he was about to do.

He glances up to find Tom looking stricken, mouth downturned and brow furrowed, gazing down at Roland with complete concentration. Roland clears his throat, which seems to startle him out of it.

“Hey, don’t go looking like you ran over my damn dog,” Roland tells him, getting back to what he was doing before. He uncaps the Neosporin and starts spreading it gentle over Tom’s palm. “I’ve put up with you being a smartass since I met you, don’t think you’ll suddenly start hurting my feelings now.”

Tom snorts quietly, the corners of his mouth quirking up. He sits still and silent as Roland finishes tending to his hand by winding a fresh layer of gauze over it. Tom stands before he can and offers his uninjured hand to help pull Roland back up off the floor.

“Try not to touch anymore car engines with your bare hands, okay?” Roland jokes. “I don’t like you coming home injured. Now, let’s go eat.”

That night, he goes to bed early, leaving Tom on the couch with a nearly finished book in hand. He wakes in the middle of the night needing to piss and pushes himself up in bed only to realize Tom isn’t in bed with him. He wanders out into the living room to find the lights turned off and Tom’s book closed on the coffee table. Tom himself is laid out sleeping on the couch. Roland frowns, but goes to grab an extra blanket to put over him.

Long after the fact, when Roland would spend far too much time looking back on their last months together in eighty-six, trying to pinpoint where things went wrong, he will decide that day was the beginning of the end. In Tom’s remaining time in the apartment, he grows distant again, slowly and then seemingly all at once. On days after work, he returns home to Roland in a bad mood, followed by him going out more on the weekends, claiming to be spending his time with people from AA. They don’t argue, but Tom seems to be keeping him at an arm's length. Sometimes, they easily fall together again, spending entire weekends mostly in bed, just often enough that Roland wonders if he's imagined the whole thing. Roland considers that Tom might be drinking again, but other than the AA outings, he keeps his schedule, gets up on time and goes to work every day. One day while Tom’s at work, he even checks around the apartment for stashed bottles, feeling guilty the entire time, but finds nothing. He could be drinking somewhere else, but he comes home around the same time everyday, tired and smelling of oil and metal. Roland continues to worry, but isn’t about to hurt his feelings by asking.

 

***

 

Things come to a head one Sunday morning in March, Tom gone off to church before Roland wakes, as usual. He finally returns to the apartment several hours later than normal, walking through the door without a word and without so much as a glance toward Roland.

“Hey,” Roland says. “Guess everyone was real chatty today, huh?”

Tom shrugs off his jacket in silence and comes to sit next to Roland on the couch, leaving a good foot of space between them.

“You alright?” Roland asks, catching the look on his face.

Tom sits in silence, staring at the coffee table before finally saying, “I found a place.”

“A place?”

“My own place,” Tom explains, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to be taking up your space anymore.”

“Hey,” Roland says, reaching out to take his hand. “You know it ain’t like that.”

Tom stares at their joined hands, looking miserable. “Look. We can’t be—” Tom sighs, pausing, “—we can’t be doing what we’re doing and living together. It doesn’t take that much to put two and two together.”

“Somebody been saying something to you?” Roland asks, watching the emotions flicker across Tom’s face, trying to catch some sign of what brought on this latest development.

Tom squeezes his hand a little tighter, swallows hard. “It don’t matter.”

Roland sighs, sliding closer so they’re pressed together side-to-side. “Then who exactly are we worried about here?”

“Don’t act like I’m stupid, Roland. You know what I’m talking about. People say things about me and soon enough they’ll be saying things about you.” He shakes his head. His hand tightens to a death grip on Roland’s. “Maybe they start out joking, but pretty soon they won’t be.”

“So let them talk,” Roland scoffs. “Fuck ‘em.”

“It ain’t just talk when it can get you fired.”

“Then fuck the job,” Roland says, pulling his hand loose to stroke Tom’s face.

“Bullshit,” Tom says, shaking his head. He shrugs off Roland’s hand and stands. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Like you weren’t just talking about being in line for a promotion the other day.”

“Hey,” Roland says. “Look, I just want to know where this is coming from. I mean, we were fine up until now and now out of the blue—”

“Look,” Tom snaps, pulling a hand through his hair, “You can't force me to stay, alright?”

“Well, I wasn’t aware that was what I was doing,” Roland replies, finally feeling a spark of anger jumping inside him, all too ready to grab hold of him, “but thanks for letting me I’ve been holding you hostage this whole time. You did a damn fine job of looking like you were enjoying being here.”

Tom winces and drops to sit in the armchair. He falls suddenly and completely silent, dragging his hands across his face. Roland slides to other end of the couch closer to him. He reaches out, his hand freezing halfway before falling back onto the arm of the couch.

“Tom, talk to me. What’s this about?” he asks, pushing the anger down, trying to keep his voice soft. He watches as Tom sits there wordless, his face face hidden behind his trembling fingers. At Tom’s lack of response, he asks instead, “Look, when do you get to move in?”

“End of the month,” Tom finally forces out, his voice cracking. He lets his hands drop from his face, finally looking up to meet Roland’s gaze. His eyes are dry, but he looks about as tired and haunted as he was before getting sober.


	9. Eighty-Seven

“You should come with me,” Lori says one morning, all casual-like. She’s looking in the mirror as she applies her lipstick, but Roland catches her quick sideways glance toward him. He’s been lazing in bed watching her get ready, her makeup bag resting on the dresser — the little one she always brings along whenever she stays the night at his place. The smell of her perfume lingers days after she leaves, Roland catching the scent every time he enters his bedroom.

“Man, you been saving up this conversation since eighty-two,” Roland groans, pulling himself up to sit back against the headboard. “You know I don’t like that priest of yours.”

“We got a new one!” Lori exclaims, clicking her lipstick shut and turning to him, her eyes bright. “Father Matthews left a couple years back. I swear you’ll like the new guy.”

Roland frowns at her as she takes hold of his hands, giving him a big smile and all but batting her eyelashes. She’s wearing the new yellow dress she picked up on sale a month back — the one that goes just sheer enough in the sunlight that he can see the shape of her legs under it. It looks good on her, even rumpled as it is after being pulled off in a hurry the night before.

“I’m not trying to convert you, Roland, I promise—”

“Lori.”

“Just give it a chance. It ain’t like I’m asking you to get baptized.”

“Lori, I—”

“We can go out for breakfast after. There’s this little diner nearby that you’ll love.”

“It’s just that I’m—”

“They make some really great pancakes. And—”

“Alright,” Roland relents, holding up his hands. “Fine.”

“Wow,” Lori says, placing a hand on her hip, the dress swishing around her knees with the motion, “guess I should’ve mentioned the pancakes first, huh?”

He snorts, trying to maintain a scowl that slips the moment she leans in to kiss him. He rests a hand on the nape of her neck and pulls her back in as she starts to break away. Lori laughs against his mouth, but humors him for a few minutes before pulling back more firmly this time and saying, “If we’re going, you gotta get ready. We’re gonna be late.”

Roland groans, but pushes himself up and out of bed, smirking as he catches her gaze dragging over him, his clothes from last night still scattered across the floor. He stretches pointedly and she rolls her eyes, laughing as she turns back to the mirror. He starts pulling on his suit as Lori checks her lipstick and spritzes on perfume. He loops his tie under his collar, then leaves it dangling there in favor of pulling Lori back over and brushing her hair aside to plant a kiss at the base of her neck.

“Why don’t you sit in front of me, though?” he mumbles against her skin.

“What?” Lori laughs, twisting around to look at him. “You afraid to be seen with me, or something?”

“No,” he replies, kissing a line up the back of her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist, “but I like you in this dress, and when I get bored, I’ll have something to look at.”

Lori laughs, pressing him away with one hand. “Come on, we better get going.”

 

***

 

They arrive late, music already from playing inside the church, but Lori’s too pleased with herself to mind their tardiness. They slip into an open spot on one of the back pews and Lori hands him a hymnal. Roland may not have grown up Catholic, but the wooden pews and the low hum of the congregation singing brings him back to his childhood. He’s starting to think this might not be so bad after all, might be worth the outcome of making Lori happy, when he spots Tom in the other section of pews, a few rows up from them.

Roland stares, keeping his head lowered over his book, but his eyes up and on Tom. His hair is slicked back, still looking slightly wet, the ends at the nape of his neck already curling. The white collar of his shirt sticks up past a brown blazer that Roland doesn’t recognize. Tom has his attention on the hymnal in his hands, but he isn’t singing along. Roland keeps an eye on him as the mass commences, watching how Tom bows his head low during each prayer, completely focused, seemingly unaware of the world around him. The congregation sits and Roland follows suit, a beat behind the rest, easing himself down beside Lori.

Halfway through the first reading, another latecomer arrives, closing the door too hard behind him. The clatter of the large wooden door has half the congregation glancing back in their seats, Tom included, startled out of his contemplation. He catches sight of Roland, his eyes going wide. He stares, startled and looking half ready to bolt, before turning around and bowing his head back over his book. Roland spends the rest of mass fixated on the back of his head, only a sliver of his face visible from his seat at the rear of the church. Tom tenses up his shoulders and remains that way, sitting so stiff as to seem completely motionless. Roland watches him and waits, but Tom doesn’t look back his way again. Even after receiving communion, Tom walks down the aisle back to his seat with his eyes fixed on the floor.

When mass lets out in a slow-moving wave of bodies, all Roland catches of Tom is a glimpse of his back as he hurries toward the parking lot.

 

***

 

He lets Lori drag him out of bed early for church again the next Sunday, much to her delight. They arrive early, this time, the pews only scattered with a handful of individuals, heads bowed in silent prayer. Tom is among them, sitting alone on the same pew as last week, head down and hands clasped together in his lap.

“We should sit with him,” Lori whispers to Roland, her lips brushing his ear. “He’s always by himself.”

Roland would protest the matter, but the church is dead silent and Lori is already making her way over to Tom. He looks startled as he glances up at her, catching sight of Roland just behind her, then plasters on a smile and nods.

“Morning,” Lori whispers to him, easily sliding past him and leading Roland with her.

Roland nods in greeting, doing an awkward side shuffle past Tom that has him nearly stepping on Tom’s toes. Lori slides partway down the pew, leaving Roland to sit next to Tom. He busies his hands with grabbing a hymnal to hand off to Lori and one for himself. Tom looks about as uncomfortable as Roland feels and for moment, he thinks Tom is about to take off, but then he just shuts his eyes and lowers his head again. Roland glances at Lori to find her with her head also tipped downward. Roland can’t recall the last time he actually offered up a prayer, so instead he tries to sit as still as possible and not focus on Tom’s warmth radiating at his side.

Others begin to filter into the church, slowly filling up the pews until they all stand as one for the opening hymn. Roland follows along, a second behind everyone else in sitting and standing as required — not only out of unfamiliarity with the service, but from finding himself distracted by Tom’s presence. His senses feel somehow heightened, catching every accidental brush of their arms, Tom’s low murmur somehow ringing out as clear as a bell to Roland despite the voices all around them. He hears the stutter in Tom’s voice whenever their arms touch. Roland himself loses any hope of following along with what the priest is saying until he starts up the Our Father, the congregation reciting along, joining hands.

Roland hesitates only for Tom to slide his hand into Roland’s easy, like it’s nothing. He supposes it isn’t, with a whole church full of people doing exactly the same thing, unaware of the two of them hidden at their center. Unaware that on more than one occasion, Roland laced his fingers through Tom’s as he pressed into him, Tom’s mouth open and gasping, “God,” in a decidedly different way than he does now. Roland’s grip on Tom’s hand tightens at the thought. Tom stumbles over the next line in the prayer, his eyes opening and darting toward Roland for the briefest of seconds before he catches himself. Roland feels hazy as the prayer ends and Tom’s hand finally slides free of his, leaving his fingertips tingling.

“Let us offer each other the sign of peace,” the priest intones and Roland’s focus is pulled back to the present as Tom turns to him, finally meeting his eyes.

“Peace be with you,” Tom mumbles, holding out his hand.

“You too, Tom,” Roland says as he takes his hand, meaning it, thinking if anyone in this church deserves peace, it’s Tom.

Tom stares back at him, his throat bobbing hard, only breaking his gaze when Lori slips her hand past Roland to shake Tom’s. The congregation sits back down. Roland’s thigh presses against Tom’s and for a moment, Roland entertains the thought of pulling Tom to himself and pressing their mouths together in front of God and everyone else in the damn church. Fuck his job, his reputation, the promise of a promotion. Then he notices how Tom’s fingers are pale and trembling against his knees and Roland pushes the thought away, clasps his hands together, and forces himself to stillness.

He spends the rest of the mass simply standing and sitting as the people around him do. When it ends, the three of them slide out of the pew together, Lori slipping between him and Tom to lay a hand on Tom’s arm and ask him something about some program they both volunteer with. Roland blinks as he steps back out into the morning light, feeling dazed.

 

***

 

From then on, Roland attends church with Lori every Sunday. He tells himself it’s to make her happy, all the while promising that if Tom seems too uncomfortable, or if he says anything about it, that he’ll back off and quit going. But Tom doesn’t. So, he continues to spend his Sundays pressed between Lori and Tom, his attention caught far more on Tom than anything godly. A year ago, he wouldn’t have thought he would have to be content with simply sitting by Tom’s side in silence.

It becomes habit for Lori to drag him along for coffee in the parish hall after mass. He spends most of his time at her side, drinking bad coffee and nodding along with whatever is being discussed. The other congregants like Lori and, by association and local knowledge that he took a bullet in the line of duty, him. It’s not uncommon for Lori to get distracted by discussion of some new project or event and wander off, leaving him chatting up whoever happens to still be sitting at the same table. This morning the table he’s seated at is empty and Roland’s considering waiting for Lori in the parking lot where he can at least have a smoke when Tom settles into the empty chair beside him.

“ _Lieutenant_ West,” Tom says, setting two styrofoam cups of coffee down on the table and sliding one over to Roland. “Congratulations.”

“Tom,” Roland greets, taking the coffee and smiling at him. “Thanks. I assume Lori’s been telling you and anyone else who’ll listen all about it. I’m surprised she doesn’t go announcing it at the pulpit before every damn mass.”

Tom’s lips quirk up at the edges as he gives a tilt of his head that is neither confirmation nor denial. He sips at his coffee, his eyes sliding over Roland in consideration, then offers, “I didn’t know you could sing.”

Roland laughs, warmth curling in the pit of his stomach at just the feeling of Tom’s gaze on him. “Suppose my line of work doesn’t call for much singing. You never do, though.”

Tom’s lips quirk into a sardonic smile. “Wouldn’t want to scare off the rest of the congregation. I didn’t see you around last Sunday.”

“Got called into work,” Roland explains. He taps his fingers against his cup. “So, how you been, Tom?”

“Good,” Tom replies.

“Yeah?” Roland asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Tom says. He shrugs and looks away, his fingers pressing dents into his styrofoam cup.

“Job going alright?”

“Got a new one, actually. Has better pay, at least.”

“Well, hell, that’s good. How’s your new place?” He tries not to let any emotion beyond polite interest creep into his voice. Judging by Tom’s wince, he doesn’t quite manage it. He shakes his head, tries again, “Shit. I mean, how’s it compare to your old place? Better, I hope.”

“Got plenty of windows. Trees, too.” Tom forces out a dry bark of a laugh. “Get woken up every damn morning by the neighbor’s chickens, though.”

Roland snorts, grinning into his cup, and Tom’s eyes catch on him again, his lips lifting back up into what is almost a smile. They stay there, sitting together and drinking their lukewarm coffee, side by side, until Lori finally returns, a smile on her face and a pile of folders in her arms.

 

***

 

Lori insists on making it to mass Christmas morning before her parents are due to show up. They get arrive at the church early and sit with Tom as the crowds pack in, filling the little church to capacity. The pews are full to the point where people end up lining the aisles to celebrate mass standing. Roland hates himself a little for the thrill that runs through him at the prospect of being pressed too close to Tom for the next hour, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush for acting this way about something as simple as their arms touching through so many layers of clothing. The entire mass is spent like that — bumping against each other’s sides every time they have to sit or stand, Roland reaching up to touch Tom’s arm several times under the guise of keeping his balance. He catches the way Tom startles every time, lips parting as he blinks long and slow, swallowing hard.

When mass comes to an end, the three of them slip out of the pews together. Lori slides her hand into Roland’s and Roland presses his free hand to Tom’s back to guide him along, keeping him close as they file out alongside the other parishioners. The crowd is full of chatter between friends and families, all smiles as they discuss holiday plans.

“I don’t know if that incense smell is ever gonna come out,” Roland says, just loud enough for the two of them to hear, sniffing at his jacket with a frown.

Lori and Tom laugh on either side of him, the rest of the church-goers jostling them together as they exit the building’s double doors in a slow-moving herd.

“Roland,” Lori says, bumping her shoulder into his arm with a pointed look.

“Oh, shit. Right,” Roland curses, “Hold on just a second, Tom.”

He leaves Lori and Tom standing together on the lawn outside the parish hall, slipping through the crowd to get back to his car. The present is sitting on the passenger seat where he left it. The wrapping paper crinkles in his hands as he makes his way back to them, dodging the lingering groups of cheerful-faced congregants still caught up in wishing each other happy holidays. Lori and Tom are caught up in conversation where he left them, Lori doing most of the talking and Tom smiling politely as he nods along. His eyes catch on Roland as he walks up, his mouth twitching up into a more genuine smile.

“Here,” Roland says, tossing him the package. “Merry Christmas.”

Tom blinks down at the present in his hands, covered in Lori’s gaudiest wrapping paper. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s nothing extravagant, don’t worry,” Roland tells him, pressing his hands back into his coat pockets.

“Well,” Tom says, glancing between them, “thank you both.”

“Lori!” someone calls and suddenly Lori is swept up into an animated conversation with a couple of other women.

Roland and Tom stand to the side of them on the lawn, glancing at each other without much to say. Roland gestures toward the package and says, “It’s a sweater.”

Tom laughs, looking down the present in his hands. He shakes his head. “Lori help you pick it out?”

“No,” Roland says, “I saw it and I thought of you is all.”

If Lori wasn’t standing just two feet away, he might’ve elaborated further. The sweater is a soft, bulky thing and when Roland saw it, he thought about the Christmas he spent with Tom in his apartment, just the two of them, curled together on the couch for most of it. Tom spent the day in a sweater and sweatpants, wandering around the apartment with bare feet as they cooked dinner and watched holiday specials on the television. They’d retired to bed not long after dinner and Roland pushed Tom’s sweater up slowly, kissing every inch of skin as he revealed it, Tom squirming beneath him and telling him to quit teasing as Roland smiled against his skin.

Tom says nothing in response, but his eyes go soft, his fingers tightening and crinkling the wrapping paper. Lori finishes up her conversation by hugging the two women and sending them on their way with holiday well wishes before turning back and pulling Tom into a hug as well.

“Merry Christmas, Tom,” Lori tells him. Tom freezes, glancing startled at Roland over her shoulder before reaching up to awkwardly pat her on the back.

Roland bites down a smile as Lori releases him before reaching out and pulling Tom into a hug of his own. He holds him tight, pats his back with one hand to disguise their closeness as mere friendliness. Tom’s arms come around for him briefly before they’re both pulling back, hands lingering on each other’s arms, smiling.

“Merry Christmas, Lieutenant West,” Tom says, his expression fond, but his eyes sad as he lets go of Roland’s arms.

“You too, Tom.”

“Take care!” Lori tells him in parting as she takes hold of Roland’s arm. She leads him back toward the parking lot, Tom left standing behind on the lawn.

They spend the rest of Christmas Day together at Lori’s place with her parents, a pair just as cheerful as she is. Roland cracks jokes and shares stories, getting them to warm up to him without trouble, Lori looking pleased with the outcome. They prepare the Christmas dinner together, reassuring her parents they don’t need any help. Lori may be at his side, but his mind is still back in the church with Tom, a line of warmth pressed along his side, a hand curled around his. After dinner, they sit with Lori’s parents in the living room, drinks in hand, and Roland finds his thoughts only drifting further away — to Tom, likely alone in his trailer with nothing but ghosts for company.


	10. Eighty-Eight

The house smells like vanilla when Roland arrives home from work. He can hear Lori humming along with the radio in the kitchen. He smiles to himself as he tosses his blazer over the back of the sofa and pops a few buttons on his shirt before strolling into the kitchen. There’s mixing bowls and measuring cups scattered across the counters, Lori at the center of the mess stirring a bowl of batter.

“Hey, you’re home early,” Lori says, setting down the bowl so she can kiss him.

“Real slow day today.” He leans against the counter. Lori cradles the bowl against her flour-specked apron and continues stirring. “What’s the occasion? This ain’t gonna be like the first time you started up with the baking, is it? ‘Cause I don’t think my body can handle another round of that.” He pats his stomach.

“No, no,” Lori laughs, tapping the spoon against the edge of the bowl, “it’s Tom’s birthday tomorrow. I thought I’d make him something.”

“Uh.” Roland furrows his brow. “And how exactly do you know that? You ask him?”

“Mm…well, no,” Lori admits, giving him a sly smile. “Carol helps out at the church office and I just _might’ve_ asked her to take a little peek at the registry for me.”

“Jesus,” Roland laughs, shaking his head. “What was your plan B? Ask me to pull his file for you?”

“I thought about that first, but I didn’t think you’d tell me.”

“Well, that’s ‘cause I wouldn’t have.”

“Which I knew,” Lori accuses, pointing her spoon at him, “so I asked Carol.”

“Nice work, Detective. You snoop around to find out his favorite dessert, too?”

“No, I didn’t.” Lori tilts her head, looking over the batter before setting the bowl down. She steps over to the sink to wash her hands. “But if he doesn’t like it, he can leave it out for the birds or something. It’s the thought that counts. You busy tomorrow?”

“Doesn’t look like it, at this rate.”

“Well, good, you can swing by his place tomorrow to drop it off,” Lori says, beaming as she pats the front of his shirt with one clean hand. “I’ll wrap it up and leave it in the fridge.”

 

***

 

Roland makes the drive over the following day, Lori’s daisy-patterned porcelain baking dish rattling in the passenger seat beside him. He’s seen less and less of Tom lately as his own church attendance continues to dwindle. On a few scattered occasions, he goes over to Tom’s new place to watch a ball game. The first time it’s just the two of them. Every following invitation includes one or two of Tom’s AA buddies as a buffer between them. Tom comes over to their new house once. Roland walks in the front door one Sunday afternoon to find him sitting on the couch, flanked on either side by Lori’s lady friends from church. He ends up lingering in the kitchen doorway with a glass of iced tea in hand, watching one of the women rest her hand on Tom’s arm whenever she talks, Tom sitting there stiff-backed and frowning.

When he arrives at Tom’s place, there’s an unfamiliar car parked out front. Roland sighs at the sight of it, though he supposes interrupting Tom and one of his AA buddies will at least save him some awkwardness. He grabs the baking dish from the passenger seat, hitching it up against one hip so he can knock on the door. He’s just raising his hand to knock again when he finally hears footsteps inside and the click of the lock. The door opens a crack. Tom peers out at him, his face obscured by the screen door.

“Lieutenant West,” he says, surprised.

“Tom,” Roland greets, raising the dish. “Lori sent me bearing gifts.”

“Oh, uh.” Tom blinks, pulling the door open a little wider and pushing the screen door forward.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Roland asks as he looks Tom over, taking in his rumpled shirt and messy hair. Tom’s expression changes to one he easily recognizes as nervousness. “You alright there, Tom?”

“I’m fine—”

“The fuck?” Another man’s voice sounds out from behind Tom. Roland tenses as Tom’s face goes pale. The other man pulls the door open wide to eye Roland, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He looks Roland over — his suit and tie, the floral baking dish in his hands, topped with a large bow and card, courtesy of Lori. “You said you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“I’m not,” Tom snaps, his face going red, his eyes fixed on the door frame. “He isn’t—”

“Actually,” Roland says with a tight smile, pulling his coat back to flash his badge, his gun tucked right behind it, “I’m just here on business.”

“ _Roland_ —”

“You’re fucking a cop?”

“I’m not fucking anybody,” Tom hisses, his eyes darting between the man and Roland, a flush rising high in his cheeks.

“Forget it,” the man says, pushing past them both, “I’m out of here.”

Roland narrows his eyes, watching the man leave until Tom grabs him by the arm and pulls him inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Tom storms into the kitchen, then just stands there. He looks caught between anger and anxiety, pulling a hand through his hair, face flushed, his mouth a tight, flat line. Roland steps forward to set down the dish on the kitchen table, hearing the muffled sound of the stranger’s car starting up and pulling back out the driveway. He surveys the couch with a frown. Tom’s jacket is thrown over one arm and the cushions are off-kilter.

“The hell was that?” Tom snaps. “Roland, you—”

“I didn’t like the way he was treating you,” Roland says, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the counter. “The way he was talking to you.”

“You talked to him for all of two damn seconds,” Tom responds, his voice already rising as he throws his hands up.

“Maybe two seconds is all I need,” Roland retorts. “Tom, you deserve better than some son of a bitch—”

“I wasn’t planning on marrying him!” Tom shouts, flinging his arms out wide. “I was gonna let him fuck me, then he’d be on his way!”

Roland flinches at the words, already hating himself for the jealousy curling in his gut. “You wouldn’t have to go out looking for someone if you had just stayed.”

Tom stares at him with wide eyes, a vein rising at his temple. He grates out, “Think you got Lori for that now.”

“Don’t go bringing her into this, Tom,” Roland sighs. “Don’t act like I—you were the one who left.”

“Goddamn,” Tom groans, dragging his hands down his face. He tips his head back to sigh at the ceiling. “We’re not having this conversation.”

Roland frowns, stepping around the counter toward him. “He hurt you?”

“What?” Tom sighs, letting his hands drop.

Roland reaches out to push down his collar, thumbing over the red finger marks on his neck, already on their way to bruising. “Did you ask him to hurt you?”

“Christ, Roland—it doesn’t matter.” Tom shrugs his hand off.

“I’d say it matters a lot, actually,” Roland says, his voice softening. “Tom.”

“He got rough, so what. Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tom scoffs, stepping back out of Roland’s reach.

“Tom.”

“What?” Tom snaps. His eyes dart up toward Roland and then away again. “Don’t look at me that way.”

“And what way is that?” Roland asks.

“Like you always do,” Tom mutters, lowering his head, “like you pity me.”

“That still what you think this is? After everything?” Roland says, hating how the hurt rings out all too clear in his voice. “All these years—it was just me pitying you, huh? I kissed you out of pity? Slept with you out of pity? Wanted you to stay out of pity? Is that right, Tom?”

Tom doesn’t reply, just lowers himself into one of the kitchen chairs and buries his face in his hands. Lori’s baking dish sits on the table in front of him, its cheerful ribbon only making Tom look more miserable by comparison. He sighs again, his shoulders dropping, all the fight gone out of him in one long breath. He shrugs weakly and gestures toward the door. “You should go. Tell Lori I said thank you.”

Roland hovers, not willing to let Tom from his sight so easily. He sighs, pushes his anger down and says, “Look, I’m sorry. I overstepped.”

Tom glances up at him, swallowing before nodding slowly. The exhausted look in his eyes is all too familiar — it’s same look Roland has seen on him time and time again over the years, always ready to return at a moment’s notice. Roland feels like he’s been punched in the gut, knowing he’s put that look there — today, of all days.

“I just don’t like seeing you get treated that way. You didn’t deserve it from Lucy and you don’t deserve it now. I’d hate to see you trade one vice for another. And I don’t pity you, Tom. I never did. You should know that by now,” Roland sighs, stepping back. “I…just wanted to see you happy and maybe I just wanted you to stick around because I enjoyed your company. That’s all.”

He heads for the door. There’s the clatter of the chair scraping against the linoleum and when he turns back around, Tom is there pulling him close. Roland freezes in surprise as Tom grabs him tight, hooking his chin over Roland’s shoulder. Roland sighs and relaxes in his hold, breathing in the familiar smell of him as he lets his arms wind around Tom’s back. He holds onto him, reaching up to stroke one hand along Tom’s hair as Tom sighs against his neck, his face pressed into Roland’s shirt collar. They stand together in silence until Tom pulls back, his hands dragging along Roland’s arms.

“Roland, I—” Tom starts, then just shakes his head and falls back into silence.

“You take care of yourself,” Roland whispers, letting himself lean in to press a kiss to Tom’s forehead before letting go. Standing there looking at him, Roland allows desire to roll over him before battering it back down and stepping away.

Tom swallows and nods. He says nothing more as Roland heads for the door, but as he pulls out of the driveway, Roland catches the twitch of the curtains, Tom’s shadow behind them.

 

***

 

“You stop by Tom’s?” Roland asks, glancing at the empty baking dish sitting in the sink.

“Huh? Oh! No, Tom stopped by to bring the dish back.” Lori looks up from the cutting board, giving Roland a look he can only describe as smug. “I actually got him to come in for coffee, for once.”

“Badgered him into it, you mean.”

“No! I asked him nicely, _once_ , and he accepted, thank you.” She cocks her head at the carrot she’s chopping. “You’re so protective of him, I swear.”

“I’m not—” Lori shoots him a look and he relents, “Alright, so after everything the man’s been through, yeah, I’m a little protective of him.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Lori murmurs, smiling. “I think it’s sweet of you, to look out for him like that. You remember that night I stopped by after we broke things off? And he was passed out on your couch?”

“Yeah,” Roland says, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He remembers that night and the others like it all too well, each of them blending together in his mind to create one long night, Tom and him stuck together in a perpetual twilight.

“I didn’t really regret the break up until then.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I guess I thought you were the love ‘em and leave ‘em type—I liked you a lot, but I didn’t think you were gonna commit,” Lori says, twisting to smile at him over her shoulder. “So, when I saw Tom on your couch, I suppose I saw what a good guy you were, to go out of your way to help him like that. I realized maybe I was all wrong about you.”

“You never told that before,” Roland mumbles against her hair.

“Mm, guess I kinda forgot about it.” She sets down the knife and wriggles around in his arms to face him. “You wanna saute these for me?”

“You got it,” Roland sighs, squeezing her a little tighter.

“Hey,” Lori says, touching his cheek. “You alright? I can get this if you’re tired or—”

“Nah, it’s nothing,” Roland mumbles, shaking his head. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead on her shoulder.

“Something happen with Tom?” she asks.

“What?” Roland lifts his head to look at her.

“You’ve been acting funny since you went over there. He hasn’t started up the drinking again, has he?”

“No,” Roland sighs, “I just worry about him is all.”

“Hey, with everything he’s gone through, he’s doing pretty well nowadays. I think he’s managing, but if you’re that worried, maybe we should just move him into the guest room,” Lori says, raising her eyebrows.

“Christ,” Roland chokes, laughing in surprise. He reaches past her to grab the carrots and slide them into a pan. “Careful or you might just wake up one morning and find I have.”

Lori’s responding laugh rings out as clear as a bell and Roland laughs along with her, as if he isn’t imagining it — Tom holed up in their guest room, just on the other side of the house from him and Lori’s bed, where Roland can keep an eye on him, keep him safe. Tom at his table every morning and every night again. Tom beside him as they cook together. Tom nodding off next to him on the couch with a book in hand. Tom sleeping in his arms, Roland already awake and watching him in the morning light, tracing the freckles on his collarbone with one finger.


	11. Eighty-Nine

“I’d been meaning to ask if you’re gonna be busy this Sunday,” Lori says after dinner one night. They’re planted on the couch side by side, watching the news, Roland with a glass of whiskey in hand.

“For church, you mean,” Roland sighs, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “Lori, look, we—”

“No, no,” Lori protests, “not for church. Look, after mass, I was gonna take Tom out to the diner for breakfast on me. He’s been helping out a lot with things at the church and I wanted to thank him. I mean, if you’re busy, I can take him out with a couple of people from church, but I think he’d prefer if you were there.”

“Yeah?” Roland asks cautiously. “Why’s that?”

“Because he misses you,” Lori says, fixing him with the look she reserves for when he’s being exceptionally exasperating. “He asks me about you, y’know. How you’re doing. What you’ve been up to. I mean, he thinks he’s being subtle, but I’m not that dense. When did you even last see him?”

“Uh.” Roland frowns, thinking of the last time he saw Tom, just a shadow peering out from his window. “Maybe…last year? Goddamn, I hadn’t even realized.”

“Not since you gave up on going to church with me, you mean,” Lori says as she raises her eyebrows.

“Well,” Roland says, “between that and work. Guess things got busy.”

“You can visit him without needing him to be falling down drunk or falling apart, y’know? You can just go over for the hell of it. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I just lost track of time,” Roland mutters, picking his glass back up.

“ _Men_ ,” Lori sighs, rolling her eyes at him. “Well, you can make up for it by being there Sunday.”

“Sure, alright. It’s been quiet around the station lately anyhow.”

“Good.” Lori smiles at him. “I worry about him sometimes, living all alone like that, with what he’s gone through. You know, some of the ladies at the church have had their eyes on him. Since he got himself cleaned up, I mean. I tried setting him up a couple times—”

“ _Lori_ ,” Roland groans.

“Hey,” she interjects, holding up a hand, “I didn’t push it. I asked and he said he’s been busy, so I dropped it. I just think it’d do him some good, you know. To have someone around.”

“Yeah,” Roland says. He drains the remainder of his whiskey. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

 

***

 

“Lieutenant West,” Tom greets with a smile, standing to shake Roland’s hand. “Been a while.”

“Hey, Tom,” Roland says, smiling, trying to take Tom in without staring him down. He’s wearing a collared shirt, just the top button undone, his jacket tossed over the back of the booth. Tom’s hand is warm and calloused in his own, the shape of it still familiar after all these years.

The three of them slide into the booth together, Roland and Lori pressed together on one side with Tom across from them. None of them bother picking up their laminated menus, having come here after one too many masses. Roland feels himself relaxing into the familiar atmosphere. There’s the low hum of the after-church crowd chatting around them and the click of utensils on plates. They’re tucked safely in the diner’s warmth, late morning light filtering in through the crooked blinds. The waitress slides three mugs onto the table — coffee for Tom and him, tea for Lori as of her latest healthy eating phase, which Roland suspects is less about her and more about influencing his own habits.

Lori curls her hands around her mug and gives Tom a wide smile. “You know, I’ve got some ideas for expanding the food pantry program I wanted to run past you.”

Tom actually seems to brighten as he discusses it with her. Before long, Roland is tuning out the endless discussion of church projects and events. He finds himself just glancing between the two of them — watching the morning light play over their faces, but mostly Tom’s as he smiles and makes small talk. The once perpetual dark circles under his eyes have finally faded. He looks like anyone else in the diner, just an average man living an average life, out with friends after church. No one could look at him and guess what he’s gone through.

Roland stretches out his legs under the table without thinking, his foot bumping against Tom’s ankle. Roland pulls his foot back, clearing his throat. Tom glances over at him, eyes half-lidded, his cheeks going a little pink in the sunlight. Roland feels like he’s been transported back in time — almost five years ago now, spending the morning in bed with Tom warm against him, pinning him down as he pressed kisses across his face, Tom laughing underneath him, his cheeks going the same shade of pink as they are now. Roland swallows, rests his chin on his hand, and looks out the window at the busy parking lot instead. There’s the soft impact of Tom gently kicking his good leg underneath the table. Roland fights down a smile, his eyes sliding back over to Tom, who’s not looking at him at all. Roland forces himself to stare down into the trembling surface of his coffee instead, trying to clear his mind.

“Roland.”

“Mm?” Roland looks up. Lori and Tom are both looking at him expectantly. “Sorry, what?”

“As soon as church comes up, I swear he just checks out,” Lori says to Tom, shaking her head. “I’m surprised he never fell asleep during mass.”

“Well, there’d been some close calls.”

“He’s still telling me there’s a perfectly good Baptist church just across town.”

“Well, I suppose I just don’t appreciate some ancient bastard telling me that I ain’t allowed to use cond—”

“ _Roland_ ,” Lori admonishes as the waitress arrives with their food.

Roland uses the distraction to bring himself back to the present, pushing the intruding thoughts of the past away. He chuckles as Lori swats at his arm, miming zipping his lips and glances over at Tom, who’s trying to hide his smile behind his coffee cup. Lori is biting down her own smile, aiming for looking annoyed, but not quite managing it. Roland looks between them and grins down at his pancakes.

“I swear, I cannot take him out in public,” Lori says to Tom, rolling her eyes.

“Now, I take offense to that.” Roland points his fork at her. “Being the gentleman that I am.”

“Mm-hm,” Lori hums, shaking her head as she scoops up a spoonful of her oatmeal.

They fall back into the easy ebb and flow between conversation and comfortable silence. Lori guides most of it, bridging the latest gap of missing time between them. Roland recognizes the expression on her face as she looks between them — it’s the satisfied one she gets when she feels she’s solved a problem that she’s been considering for a while.

“One minute,” Lori says, sliding out of the booth. “Restroom. Be right back.”

Roland exchanges glances with Tom, the conversation coming to a sudden halt with her absence.

Roland pushes his food around his plate, then grins and says, “Lori tells me she’s been trying to set you up with some ladies from the church.”

Tom grimaces. “I been telling her how busy I am with work.”

Roland laughs, then pauses in thought. “You been seeing anybody?”

“Uh,” Tom mumbles, glancing up at him in surprise before looking back down at his plate, “nothing serious.”

Roland makes a noise of acknowledgment, not trusting himself to speak. He has a mental image of a man not unlike the one he drove off from Tom’s place last year pressing Tom down onto the couch in his trailer, kissing him, touching him. The thought makes his stomach twist. He sets his coffee mug down too hard on the table. Tom flinches at the noise.

“Sorry,” Roland says, “clumsy.”

Lori is back and sliding into the booth before Roland can offer up another uncomfortable question. The rest of breakfast goes easy. Roland is always surprised to discover how the three of them can fall into comfortable conversation together; even Tom seems relaxed, content just sitting across the booth from them. If Roland could just fight back the ache that rises in his chest every time he looks at Tom’s face, he could almost pretend they’re just the old friends they’re playing at being. He keeps catching himself staring at Tom just a moment too long, his body in the present and his mind five years away.

They finish up eating and the bill arrives, Roland snatching it up before Tom’s fingers can so much as graze it. They get up from the booth together, pulling on coats and heading for the cash register.

“Oh, there’s Carol and Jim, I’ll be right back,” Lori touches Roland’s arm as he finishes up paying. Then she’s off greeting an older couple across the room and slipping into an empty chair across from them.

“She’ll be an hour if I’m lucky,” Roland jokes, hand on Tom’s back as they step out into the crisp air. They lean against the short brick wall just outside the diner, facing the parking lot. Roland digs his pack of cigarettes out from his coat pocket and offers it to Tom. He fishes one from the package and leans in close as Roland lights it for him before lighting his own.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Tom says, glancing sideways at him.

“Sure,” Roland says. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. Better than before, I guess.” Tom gives him a rueful little smile. “Work’s alright.”

Roland nods, swallowing. He watches as Tom tips his head back to blow out smoke, exposing his thin, stubbled throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Several memories hit him at once: kissing the hollow of his throat as Tom gasps with his head thrown back as he presses into him for the first time, Tom’s hands clutching tight to his back; standing with his bare feet on the bathroom tile as he watches Tom drag a shaving razor down his neck; tipping his head back with one hand on his chin to wipe the blood from his forehead in the dim yellow light of Tom and Lucy’s bathroom. Tom glances over at him as he takes another drag, Roland’s own cigarette smoldering forgotten in his fingers.

“I’ve missed you.”

Tom freezes, the slight smile on his face fading, his fingers tightening on his cigarette.

“Shit, forget I said anything,” Roland says, backtracking at once.

“No,” Tom sighs, staring at their feet, “I’ve missed you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” Tom says, shuffling just a hair closer, close enough for their shoulders to press together. “I…used to miss you just when I had to go to work. ‘Course I miss you now. But it’s better this way though. Safer.”

“Is it?” Roland pitches his voice low, hyper-aware of the families departing the diner just a few feet away. “We could’ve—you know that I—”

“Lori’s been telling me how well your new position is going.” Tom lifts his head to smile at him. “She’s a good woman. I’m glad you’ve got her around to look out for you.”

“And who’s gonna look out for you?” Roland asks, watching him. He feels the same pull to Tom that he’s always felt, like he never wants to let the man out of his sight. He’s not sure when it happened, or if it took root that first night, watching the slow rise and fall of Tom’s chest as he slept on his couch, under Roland’s blankets. Since then, it seems like there’s nothing he wants more than to keep watch over him.

“I’ll manage.” Tom swallows hard and forces another smile. “Anyway, it ain’t like you’re not around.”

“That’s right,” Roland forces a smile too, sure his looks just as strained as Tom’s. He claps Tom on the shoulder, letting his hand linger. “You ever need anything, you just call. I—”

“Roland!” Lori’s walking out of the diner with an apologetic smile on her face. “Sorry, I got to talking. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“That’s alright, I wasn’t expecting to get out of here without running into someone you know.”

Lori laughs, then turns to pull Tom into a hug. “It was good talking to you, Tom. You should stop by the house sometime for dinner. We’d love to have you over.”

“Maybe, I’ll have to see. Work’s been busy.” Tom smiles, lets her kiss him on the cheek.

“See you around, Tom,” Roland says, reaching out to hug him tight, holding him just a second longer than he should before releasing him. He only looks back once as they turn and walk their separate ways, Lori’s hand sliding into his own.


	12. Epilogue: Ninety

Roland’s fingers are still tingling from the tightness of Tom’s grip as Tom walks him to the door. He turns around to say goodbye, but finds himself just standing there staring instead. Tom tries for a smile, his brow still furrowed and worried, the sun just beginning to set and casting a halo of light around the edges of his curls. Roland swallows. Tom reaches out as if to shake his hand, but ends up just holding it again, gentler this time. Both their palms are still warm from being held pressed together for so long on the couch. Roland squeezes his fingers.

“I’m gonna do everything in my power to find out what’s going on here, Tom,” Roland says. “I promise you.”

“I know,” Tom tells him. “There’s no one I’d trust more than you with this.”

Roland nods and reaches up to pat Tom’s shoulder with his free hand. He lets his hand linger there, feeling the warmth of Tom’s skin radiate from beneath the knit of his sweater. “I’ll call you as soon as we find anything out. You hang in there.”

“I will,” Tom agrees, only the slightest quiver present in his voice. He lets his eyes slide shut for a moment, his eyelashes trembling against his freckled cheeks. He blinks them back open. “Goodnight, Lieutenant West. Drive safe.”

“Night, Tom,” Roland says, fighting down the urge to kiss him, or hold him at least. He forces himself to think of Lori, probably already home and busy in the warmth of their kitchen, waiting for his return. He gives Tom’s hand one last squeeze, then releases him. He shrugs his coat back on and steps out into the yard.

He makes his way down the steps to his car, telling himself it’s just his leg acting up that’s got him moving so slow. He pulls his keys from his pocket, feeling the cool breeze blow past him, already well on its way to an even colder night. He glances back at the trailer, and lets himself imagine, however briefly, a different future — one in which Tom and him live there together, one in which Tom never left, one in which Roland lets himself give in and doesn’t go home tonight, spends the night with Tom in his arms instead. One in which Tom never knew the pain of loss to such a terrible extent and one in which they never met. His fingers tighten on the key. He has one hand on the door handle when he hears the screen door squeak open again behind him.

“Roland!” Tom calls out after him as he’s opening the car door. He looks up. Tom’s standing on the steps, squinting at him in the light of the setting sun, his hands tight on the wooden railing. “Thank you. For everything.”

Roland smiles at him as he slides his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose, raises his hand. Tom gives him a wave back and remains standing there as Roland pulls back out of the driveway. Tom’s shape grows smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as Roland heads back down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU so much to everyone for reading, leaving kudos, and/or commenting! :') It really means a lot to me given that this was my first go at writing fanfic!
> 
> Also, I've been spamming this on tumblr, but for those who haven't seen it there, I started a TD discord server and you should join if you wanna chat about the show: https://discord.gg/haDVVXp


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